


Under Marching Orders from My Heart

by iblieveinu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:46:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iblieveinu/pseuds/iblieveinu
Summary: Why does no-one ever remember that Doctor John Watson was once Captain John Watson? Sherlock is on the move and John follows. The Great Game has to be played. But John swears to bring Sherlock out in one piece - if he has to drag his sweet bony arse back to Baker Street. BAMF John! Sherlock is as he always is.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 116





	1. The Opening Games

Okay, this is my first effort at the Sherlock-Watson, Johnlock ficdom and I'm not sure how I'll do. Do review with your comments and suggestions. But please be kind.

Hope you like the chapter. Updates depending on reader/reviewer response. Cheers!

* * *

A little story of how I wanted to see things happen after Sherlock fakes his death and leaves 221B Baker Street to go after Moriarty. Why does no-one ever remember that Doctor John Watson was once Captain John Watson?

* * *

"Welcome Doctor Watson. How can I help you today?"

"Mycroft. I'm not interested in word games today. So let me get right down to it."

Mycroft Holmes raised a brow at the voice of command issued from this quiet little doctor. He could well guess why he was here, 3 weeks after the event, but he was no less curious about what he was going to hear. The good doctor had never ceased to surprise either of the Holmes brothers. His quiet dependability and loyalty, even in the face of Mycroft's 'interventions' was the reason why he was trusted with Sherlock's well-being and indeed his sanity.

"Very well. Do sit down, John." Mycroft waited for John to sit at the desk before taking his place behind it, watching his unexpected guest carefully. There was something in his eyes. He didn't have to wait long to learn the reason for the visit.

"I'll start with the rhetorical questions. Please answer in yes or no honestly. Will you do that?"

Another raised brow was the reply, but John could see that the elder Holmes brother was giving him his attention. Time to get the ball rolling.

"Have I ever given you cause not to trust me since you first abducted me?" If Mycroft was surprised by the question or knew where it led, he didn't show it. He gave only a quiet response. "No."

"Have I ever been remiss in taking care of your brother?" "No."

"Have I ever, at any point of time, not helped your brother with whatever he wanted, no matter the time of day?" "No."

"Have I ever given you cause not to trust me when it comes to your brother?" "No."

"Have I been a friend to your brother?" "Yes."

Here John's gaze sharpened on the man before him. "Good. Now riddle me this, Mycroft. Is Sherlock alive?"

Mycroft's eyes widened imperceptibly; the only indication that he'd not been expecting so direct a question. He hesitated.

"Come now, Mycroft, surely you know he's alive. Unless he hasn't told you too."

"What makes you think he's alive, Doctor?"

John grinned wolfishly and Mycroft mentally gulped. "Because Sherlock Holmes is not in his grave." He leaned across the table. "So tell me Mycroft, where is he hiding this time?" Shifting back into his seat John continued, not giving the stunned man across him time to speak. "You either know that he's not dead, or you don't know where he is. I find the latter more probable since its you after all. So I'll ask you again. Do you know where Sherlock is?"

"Perhaps." He wasn't about to tell the doctor everything after all. Not until he knew where this was going.

"Does he plan to come back at all?" "… Yes."

"Do you know when he'll be back?" "No."

"So, where is he then?" asks John with a smile.

"You know I can't tell you that, John."

The doctor waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, Sherlock made you promise not to tell me so I wouldn't follow him and he could feel he's doing whatever he's doing to keep me safe. Well, others as well," he reflected after a pause.

"If you wouldn't mind me asking, how do you know so much? How are you sure that Sherlock's alive and not here?"

"He's your brother Mycroft, but he's also my friend. And I'd like to think that I know him well enough to know that this self-sacrificing lark is the sort of thing he would do if he feels his friends are in danger and by playing 'knight in shining armor' he can save them. I've spent enough time with your brother to know that he has a heart and he does care. Only not in ways most people would expect."

Mycroft read the fond look in the doctor's eyes and the affection in his voice and knew the quiet little man was right. "What would you do if I told you where he is?"

The response came without a second's hesitation. "Go to him and help him."

"He will not appreciate it."

"That's my problem," came the smiling reply.

Leaning back into this chair Mycroft asked one more question. "What can you do?"

John smirked. Retrieving his phone from an inner jacket pocket, he flicked across the screen a few times then handed it to Mycroft. "Access my file with that code."

Now Mycroft is interested. Not that it shows on his face. "We have already seen your file, Doctor Watson."

John smiled, teeth glinting. "Humour me, Mycroft."

The British Government took the bait and accessed the Ministry of Defence databases looking for the secure files of one Doctor John Hamish Watson, invalided RAMC Army doctor and GP from Afghanistan. A few buttons pressed later, he was looking at the file. Decorated officer, invalided and let go, diagnosed with PTSD and advised therapy. What else was there? Glancing at the now humming doctor, he entered the access code he had been given and stared at the screen in stunned shock.

Impossible.

How had they missed this in the background checks on this man?

"Found what you're looking for then?" chuckled John. But when Mycroft turned back to face him, the soldier's eyes were dark blue, flat and forbidding. Chips of a glacier, strong and solid, moving with an indelible grace, but with the power to crush anything in its path. "Now, will you tell me what I want to know? It would be much less trouble than having to follow his trail from scratch." John checked the shine of his fingernails, tone nonchalant.

Mycroft was finding it difficult to reconcile the image of the peaceful, smiling, utterly bland and absolutely dull Doctor Watson with the information on his file. Sitting before him now was an ex-SRR ghost, a soldier from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, a top-secret unit of the British Army Special Forces. The SRR men were highly trained lethal soldiers, capable of operating under pressure for the many months of undercover intelligence and infiltration work they were trusted with. They were feared and respected among the military and intelligence agencies with due cause. More astounding than that in his service record was the unique name 'TC'. The man was more than a ghost, leading his team into hostile engagements and returning with a successful mission under his belt every time.

"But you disappeared 3 years ago!" exclaimed Mycroft, showing blatant emotion for the first time.

"I had just returned to the RAMC and got shot while tending to a fellow officer. The rest is history." He paused and continued, "Now that you know who I am, I have a gift for you."

"What would that be?"

John smiled humorlessly. "There will be three men waiting to speak with you right about now. If you will bring them in and show them to Sherlock's safe room, I will tell you a secret."

Resigned, Mycroft signaled Anthea to admit the men and show them to the white padded room he's had built especially for those days that his brother needed to be stopped from harming himself. He showed no surprise that John knew about it.

Turning back to his visitor he saw that John was already in his feet. The same man in his dull green jumper and khaki pants, buttoned collar, and scuffed brown shoes. Was it even possible? He pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off an impending headache. "Shall we, Doctor?"

"Leading the way, Mycroft strode towards a personal suite of rooms he used when he had to stay over on account of work. At the door of Sherlock's safe room, they stopped and John pushed ahead to greet two men who were obviously identical twins. They had lithe frames, wiry and no doubt spring strung. Short cropped hair pointed to their obvious status as soldiers. They were possibly old friends of the doctors'. John must have picked them, especially for the visit today. Sighing, he stepped forward when John turned to introduce him.

"Ben, Tiny, Mycroft Holmes." Holmes noticed that John hadn't pointed either twin out specifically.

"Pleasure, Mr. Holmes," said one of the twins in a deep rumbling bass, the other just nodding.

"Where's is the third man, Doctor?"

John gestured to the safe room. Puzzled, Mycroft stepped up to the one-way, reinforced, highly compressed viewing glass panel to look inside. Not a moment later, shock threw his body back from the entrance to the room and he stared blankly at the viewing panel. He almost missed John's laughing comment.

"Well, Mycroft, I present to you, Colonel Sebastian Moran."


	2. On the Road

I see that for a first-time effort I did get a few heartening responses. That spurred me on to upload this next chapter a bit earlier than planned.

Thank you, to all who read, bookmarked, and gave kudos to this story. 

And moving on …

* * *

Mycroft cradled a glass of whisky staring into the flames in the fireplace. It was rare that he made any sort of error in reading a man. He'd thought there was no more to John Watson than the old badge of being a war hero – upright, self-respecting, incorruptible - that first night he'd met the man. Only to be disabused of the notion when news reached him of the doctor using his gun on a man out to kill his younger brother. As Sherlock had attempted to explain to DI Lestrade, one would require nerves of steel and a steady hand to make that shot and to do it without regret.

John Watson was such a man.

Henceforth, he'd had no qualms about leaving Sherlock in the man's care, going so far over the years as to provide the occasional nudge to the good doctor whenever things looked unsteady for his brother.

John had never turned him down.

Beneath the grumbling and the long-suffering sighs, the two men had over time bonded over the common denominator that both loved and cared for in their own ways: Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, beloved younger brother, brilliantly intelligent man, petulant moody child and with a heart that bloomed when it was freely loved.

Despite years of training that sentiment was a hindrance and a waste of time, Mycroft had been glad when he realised how much Sherlock had opened up to the unassuming doctor. The older man had become Sherlock's flatmate, colleague, and friend, watching over that head of inky black curls like a guardian angel. The unconditional acceptance that John had given Sherlock had assured Mycroft that his brother would be in good hands.

And so far, John had never let him down.

Perhaps it would be a good idea to let John help. Of course, Mycroft knew that this would only be an official sanction; a courtesy that John was willing to give him fairly. The man was perfectly capable of leaving on this mission on his own. And for that, though he would never verbally say so, he was grateful for the Ex-SRR soldier's help in tracking and helping his brother. Although John would know anyway; he had become keenly observant of the Holmes brothers over these past months and was extremely intuitive when he chose to be.

Then again, Mycroft mused, he could hardly begrudge the sanction, seeing how two more guests had taken up quarters in the secret holding facilities of the Ministry of Defence with access restricted to only himself and their blond-haired captor.

Sherlock had been right after all. Jim Moriarty had left instructions for three of his snipers to kill John, DI Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, in the event that Sherlock didn't die to buy the lives of his friends. Fortunate indeed that his brother's intellect had saved them all, including himself.

But there was always a price to pay for caring too much. For caring at all. And so his baby brother had to leave. Forced to hunt down the spider web of Moriarty's criminal empire and bring it down from the inside.

Mycroft had implicit faith in his brother's abilities but he also knew of his rash nature. It had been tamed by John though, over the past 18 months. Had it only been that long? Maybe it would be enough. Maybe it already was.

Neither of them had counted on the resilience of the soldier though. He had seen his friends killed before his eyes in the war of sun and sand. Blood spilled of foe and friend alike. But his quietude and silence had misled them into believing that he was no more a man of action. Only a simple man of healing. Even after he had shot that cabbie. It was an oversight.

It had taken John Watson, who never gave up on his best and closest friend and lover, two weeks to pull himself together and look at the whole incident with the trained eye of an Army Doctor, a Captian, and a spec-ops commander.

Another week had gone towards ensuring the continued safety of Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade, both of whom were John's friends too. The proof was sitting in the MoD cells. True to form, the man had doubled back on the threats and taken out all three snipers for the MoD's chemists to play with. Getting what little information they had to Sherlock was a different problem altogether. One that John seemed ready and willing to solve.

After that, it had taken him less time than that to ascertain certain facts beyond doubt. Even though he'd had to dig up Sherlock's grave for it. Mycroft assumed his friends had helped since it still looked undisturbed the following morning. But the headstone had changed and that was the first clue that someone had noticed something was wrong. Only, no-one noticed.

It took the rise of a retired spec-ops operative from Sherlock's ill-named grave to make him realise how much he had underestimated this quiet man with an iron will.

Yes, he would make the necessary arrangements for his friend to go to his brother. After all human guardian angels needed more mortal wings to fly.

Mycroft Holmes made the call.

Four hours later a group of black-haired men in starched Italian suits arrived at Paris via private plane and then checked into various hotels across the city.

One hour later, each and every one of them had disappeared.

Mycroft could only pray that both John Watson and Sherlock would return safely. Neither would ever be complete without the other.

* * *

~ Scene Break ~

* * *

"So what now?"

"Now we look for Holmes Junior and keep him safe."

"You know where he is?"

"I have an idea." He pulled a file out of his bag. "M gave me a file on his past activities. He hasn't got far enough or deep enough to do any lasting damage yet and the Spider's web is still strong. Our mission priority number 1 – Junior, observe only." He clicked something on his laptop and brought up a photograph of his truant flatmate. "Unless he's in some shit of his own making, then we can go bust him out." The men chuckled at the expression of exasperation on Doc's face.

"Meanwhile, I want you to set up a mobile center to run out of, Randy," John addressed a stocky young man, a few years younger than himself. "Get whatever you need, but keep it simple and make a few of those experimental undetectable trackers as well. Might have to put one in Junior." The man nodded.

"Ben, I need you to keep in touch with the boys back home once in a while. Make sure our friends are clear. Then get ahold of some quick transport."

"Will do, Doc."

"Tiny, did you get what we need from M?"

"Yeah, I have the signal from Junior's phone. You need me to bug in?" He got a sharp nod in return.

"Smalls, run the supply cart." He handed the blond a list and a stack of money. "Get this within the hour." One pale green eye winked back at him before the man disappeared.

"Stone, your favourite part. We need some noise." The big man grinned and trotted out.

John got up and moved towards a small stove in the corner of the room, surveying the various ingredients laid out there. He slapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly. "Right. Now, who wants to help with the Stroganoff?"

Unsurprisingly, there was a ringing silence behind him.


	3. Safety First

It's nice to see how well this story is being received.

Thank you to all my readers, and to everyone who has bookmarked and given kudos on this story. Here's the next chapter up. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

It took a few weeks of planning and reconnaissance, but John's team was sure of where Mikhail Alejandrovich was staying. It had taken the better part of a month to systematically bring down the man's business from the inside. He was one of the key pieces on Moriarty's web and one of the few who was stable enough to step into Moriarty's mad shoes, making it imperative that his underground power base be brought down first, before concentrating all his attention on the man himself.

In Russia, the widest network was the drug racket. Alexandrovich was the fulcrum around which it revolved. His second was his younger brother. _Was_ being the operative word. John grinned at how easy it had been to bring down Mischa. All of these drug lord types had a weakness for loud clubs and sexy women, and their sweet pale-blond Tatiana was everything both Mischa and John could have wanted, though of course for different reasons. A steamy rendezvous in the back of a limo and another string of the web was cut forever.

Working like the well-oiled team they were, John and his friends methodically destroyed cashes and shippings, taking out the dime-a-dozen men hired per gram of cocaine or ecstasy. Several times they had to stand back and watch unobserved as Sherlock came into the picture, but otherwise continued with their spree across the length and breadth of Russia.

Soon, the last stronghold left to Mikhail was in Moscow. John bought a bunch of tickets to the ballet.

Spread out across the hall, John's team kept an eye out for variables. John and Stone had got seats in the same balcony as Mikhail, while the others had taken seats below and across from them. Tatiana was running interference for the man's muscle and reported in with the bodyguard body count: 6 down, 2 in the balcony.

Unsurprising really, and he should have expected it, but John hadn't prepared himself to find Sherlock seated barely two seats away. In the feeble light of the hall, the genius looked paler than usual and had obviously lost weight. His expression was determined, but his eyes were a shadow of his old self. John's hands itched to smooth his fingers over those high cheekbones, so beautiful even now, and shelter the man he loved from this life.

Pushing the emotions back into their cage he spoke quietly to Stone. "Keep watch over Sherlock. I'll take care of the guards." Waiting only long enough for Stone's affirmative response, he rose with his glass of wine in one hand and the programme card in the other. On the way out, he stumbled into one of the guards, spilling the drink over his suit and saw Sherlock tense from the corner of his eye. Apologizing in slurred, drunken Russian, John dragged the man out and towards the washrooms, insisting with the strength of the drunken that he would make it up to the kind man.

Once in the men's room, John grabbed hold of the unsuspecting guard and swung him bodily into the mirror above the washbasins. Producing a garrote from around his wrist, he strangled the dizzy man and maneuvered the body into the last cubicle. Five minutes later Stone called in to report that the other guard was out and approaching John's position.

Slumping down on the floor of the men's room, just inside the door, John waited for the man to arrive. Before he could be alerted by the broken and bloody glass, John tripped the man, rising from the floor in the same move. A swift hit to the back of his head stunned the guard completely. He pulled the man's left arm up behind him and plunged a needle into the forearm with surgical precision. The man would later be identified as having died of overdosing. He left the job of arranging the bodies to his team.

On his way back to the balcony, Stone reported that Sherlock had taken advantage of the shift between scenes and slipped something into Mikhail's drink. The man had died within seconds of ingestion.

One corner of Moriarty's web was down for good.

John waited for Sherlock to leave the country then followed him deeper into the madness. "What people do for love, eh Doc?" asked Randy before he ran from Doc's frown. But then, that was exactly what John asked himself in the late hours of the night. 'What indeed?'

The next day he sent the agreed-upon reports to Mycroft, wondering whether he should just eliminate everyone on the list and go home already or do this thoroughly. He'd had no doubts until last night. The idea of Sherlock being any close to death and danger made the blood run cold in his veins. He knew how the detective would have felt the day he jumped from St. Bart's, the absolute desperation.

John shook his head dispelling his thoughts and continued with the packing. They were taking only the bare essentials. He had a stop-over in London to ensure that his friends were safe while the rest of the team followed his flatmate to wherever he was going next.

There was also the little matter of one Col. Sebastian Moran to take care of. Landing in London, John was met by Anthea and the familiar sleek black car. Willingly, he got in and was silently handed a file.

Mycroft had come through.

In his hands were the confidential files of Moran. A professional sniper, army trained, and had at one point been a part of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, much like himself. John's jaw clenched at the next part. Moran had been court-martialed with a dishonorable discharge from the force due to gross misconduct and refusal to follow specific orders from a senior officer. As a former Sandhurst trained sniper himself, John had heard of the case but had never been interested enough to learn the identity of the man.

Years later, Moran had resurfaced as a big game hunter, with a dash of professional assassin on the side. As a sniper, he was in big demand and charged hefty sums for each kill, animal, or human alike. It wasn't until Moriarty had found him though that Moran found a future in his own true calling.

The psychopath and the killer had gone underground together, and there was no information on either of them until Moriarty faced off with Sherlock at the pool. Obviously, Moran had been one of the snipers present there. He was also the one to put John into the Semtex vest while Moriarty walked around throwing taunts at him.

Moran was Queen to Moriarty's King and had the most knowledge about his boss' network than anyone else. Mikhail had been easy since Sherlock was already there. But a bit of prior information would allow them to cover more ground and speed up the operation.

Lost in his thoughts John waited for the car to reach its destination.

* * *

~ Scene Break ~

* * *

Once again Mycroft and John sat across from one another. Although this time there was a tea service between them. Mycroft sipped at his tea delicately, waiting for the army man to speak.

"Would you mind terribly if I just shot the bastard already?"

"I'm sure you understand why I can't allow that John," murmured the politician softly. His companion grimaced.

"He shouldn't be allowed to live."

Mycroft noted the shudder pass over the man and recognised it for the disgust he felt for the sniper. An emotion he was quite willing to indulge himself. Besides, the good doctor's hands were steady. He allowed a moment's silence more as he finished his cup of tea.

"What have you learned, John?"

The army man leaned back into his chair and looked the politician in the eye with a slash of a smile across his face. "He's breaking slowly but surely. Moriarty gave him a privileged life in return for all the killings he could want. Despite the fact that he's got the skill and is a deadly sniper, he's gone soft." A snarl rumbled from the doctor's throat. "I will soon have everything we want."

Mycroft nodded once though he kept his thoughts to himself. "And what of your friends? Where are they?"

"I sent them ahead with Sherlock. Ben has been sending in regular reports. They're doing fine." He looked at Mycroft and smiled a bit. "Sherlock's doing well too. As well as can be expected in the circumstances. We're trying to look after him as much as we can. But he is your brother after all. If too much changes he'll know someone's watching. And he'll disappear again. Not a risk I want to take."

The impassive expression wavered for a second and John could see the brother's worry beneath the political veneer. "We're doing all we can Mycroft," he spoke softly, knowing the man would probably not appreciate the gesture, but he would make it nevertheless.

Mycroft gazed searchingly at the doctor and must have found whatever he was looking for. His expression softened slightly and he inclined his head towards the doctor.


	4. Working around Sherlock

It's good to see how many people are reading this little story! Thank you to all those who left their reviews too!

This chapter was a bit difficult to write. Hope it has come out well. But I'm going to put it up anyway and you can tell me how you like it.

Please review!

* * *

John was not surprised to find himself in New Orleans. Sherlock was here and that was reason enough.

The real reason was the meeting going on in the building opposite him. It was a small house with a white picket fence and a happy family. Only a child and a dog were missing. Records showed that the house belonged to one Edward McAllister, worked in the government, but preferred to stay in his childhood home left to him by his parents.

He seemed completely clean and John could not for the life of him see why Sherlock had been staking out the house for the better part of a fortnight. But he trusted his friend and decided to do the next best thing for effective recon purposes. Instead of trailing McAllister, John directed Randy and Smalls to bug Sherlock's house.

The detective had taken residence in an abandoned overgrown house on the same street as the targets'. John had no doubt that Sherlock wouldn't miss the new faces of John's team and that would seriously hamper both their efforts.

They ended up taking a small house on rent two streets away from the target and Sherlock. Morning walks and jogs around the blocks established a routine while Smalls' purchases ensured that the team looked exactly like the small town, small money 'boringly normal' people they weren't. It helped that living with the mad detective had taught John enough to know how to hide in plain sight. So after a good deductive bout, the detective didn't pay any attention to the boisterous group of men and women.

Releasing a light dose of sleeping gas into Sherlock's house after that was child's play. Ensuring that the detective was sound asleep, the team made quick work of setting up the cameras in all possible corners of the house, not forgetting the outside. It paid off.

A few days later Smalls reported Sherlock looking at the plans for the property dated 10 years ago. Those plans showed an extensive series of underground facilities accessible from the McAllister house, but with several exits all over the neighbourhood. John clenched his fists a snarl barely escaping him. He'd be damned if it was Dartmoor all over again. He couldn't risk Sherlock in that situation again.

A text to Mycroft laid out the details they had found, asking for additional information on McAllister's affiliations. A day later, John received an email on his private account; the documents revealed something quite different.

Reginald Smith, a banker of some repute connected to Goldman-Sachs had managed to fall prey to Moriarty's charm at some conference or other when they were still young men. Unfortunately for him, young Jim found and hoarded evidence of Smith's gambling problems as well as the connected issues of embezzlement and adultery.

He'd offered to help Smith monetarily and continued to support the man long enough for Smith to become complacent and take the help for granted. It was then that Moriarty convinced the banker to work for him. With his connections in the right circles, Smith was able to collect and maintain a fairly influential set, wealthy and powerful.

Moriarty took his time collecting incriminating evidence against all of them. Once he had it, however, he had a major financial backing for any of his mad schemes, a cover for illicit activities, and a whole group of people to take the fall for him should anything go wrong.

And James 'Jim' Moriarty was only 21.

Digging deeper into the past with some reluctant help from Moran removed the veil from Moriarty's network and led them to the man who was responsible for keeping everything under wraps on a secure database on a ghost server. Edward McAllister.

This work was more for a specialized team of computer experts and hackers than John's team. Nevertheless, he put Randy, Tiny and Smalls on it immediately, cautioning them to stay clear of Sherlock in the system. He'd had more than enough experience with his flatmate to know that the man was as close to an expert you could find in cybernetics and hacking.

A mail to Mycroft appraised him of the situation and the elder Holmes promised to get someone on the case immediately. Meanwhile, it was left to John to bring in McAllister and his people. Hopefully, they would also be able to catch him with evidence of the money laundering act he had going on under his house.

The night was warm and the small town quiet when John's tactical team went into play. Sherlock had been distracted by a complex knot created by Randy inside McAllister's network, thus ensuring that the genius would not be involved in the take-down.

"Stone, you ready?"

"Ready when you are, Doc."

"Smalls, Grim, take the north-east exit. Tiny, Ash, go south-east. Ben and Hollow, you're south-west. Stone, with me. Randy's got Sherlock duty, so nobody disturb him. Siren and Skater are lead back-up with the fire-side girls." Calls of 'Hey!' broke into the frequency and John grinned. "We're going in to bring the pain, gentlemen, make no mistake. Any intel you can get is all to the good, but not at the cost of the mission. Make sure all humans are out of the complex at the end-time mark. This place will be blown to hell by then and I would prefer not to practice my trade on you guys again."

"You got it Doc," called in the team in various inflections as they settled into position and listened for the 'go'.

A final consultation with Randy and Smalls later, John called it. "Move."

With the precision of a striking mamba, the black-clad team, invisible in the night, moved stealthily towards the arena for the day. All exits and entrances had been closely monitored for activity over the past weeks and John had chosen the least used and least noticeable ones for the infil tonight.

"Night vision," came the command over the freq and the team switched to the thermal, night vision gear Smalls had brought for them.

The team had spent several hours pouring over the maps copied from the ones in Sherlock's rooms, and each person knew exactly where to go. On this particular night, as observed every week over the past month, McAllister personally oversaw the maintenance and upkeep of his machinery and the printing of the first batch of fake currency from them. The process took the entire night and McAllister always took the next day off from work to catch up on his beauty sleep. Well, John had a different idea of just where to send the man to sleep this time.

Perfectly synchronized, the four teams moved into the facilities searching for the people working there in the red-lit rooms. They had all been carefully tagged over the past month, making it easy for John's men to collect them as they went deeper into the complex. The silent scuffles went unheard in the steady hum of the machines. John had taken a leaf from Sherlock's book and had given everyone a bunch of zip-ties to be used for binding their 'guests'.

There were eleven rooms in total, the one in the middle being McAlister's office and transfer room, being directly connected to the trapdoor in the floor of his study overhead. As they neared the inner set of rooms, the teams all converging together, a tall blond in full tactical gear emerged from the room directly in front of Smalls, barking orders into a headset, arms full of M4, head on a swivel.

Then, as he registered the silence and spotted Smalls and Grim in the nearest hallway, all hell broke loose in the confined space.

The blond crouched and spun, getting back into cover, shouting a command over his commlink to his friends. All too soon, John's team was trading fire for fire against what John recognized as SAS issue weaponry. Not impossible for someone like McAllister to hire. He shook that thought out of his head; the man himself would be able to get away if they took much longer.

Armed with only his handguns, John signaled Ben and Tiny to cover him and Stone as they surged forward in an orchestrated move with an ease that spoke of long practice. Crouched low and almost doubled over, the two separated from the group, moving in opposite directions, making it seem as though they were simply moving to a better position. Silently counting down from five seconds, they waited for a breath and at zero moved around the battling group, black shadows in the dark, slipping through to flank their attackers unseen. Checking the silencers on their weapons, John and Stone aimed and fired, spitting hot metal into vulnerable flesh, dropping a man with each shot. Across from them, their friends rumbled a muted cheer and began firing in earnest, keeping the attention of their assailants on them and leaving John and Stone to operate unhindered.

Then the lights came on.

Freezing but for a second, John whispered into his comm set calling for silence. Hidden as his team was, it would be child's play for these guards to track them using their bullet trajectories. Movement was now impossible. A short burst of static in his ear caused him to wince, but Randy's voice came through clearly, short clipped syllables that explained the unexpected illumination.

"Sorry Doc. Sherlock went through that knot much faster than I anticipated. He's tripped the lights down there while trying to disable the security. I'm on it. Give me two minutes."

Given that he didn't have much choice, John had no option but to wait. Except that it would never be that easy. Their assailants didn't have to wait after all.

The ex-soldiers had put down at least 10 of the armed guards, if guards they were, sustaining only flesh wounds in return. But there were still about 15 more standing there, weapons hot and cocked.

"Security is down. Sherlock's on the move. Looks like he has your gun Doc."

So that's where that went. John clenched his jaw tight. 'Stupid, stupid Sherlock.' He gave an order he'd hoped never to have to give.

"Sedate him."

Above ground, the fire-side girls circled the tall, pale detective, firing a tranq dart into him before he'd even crossed the property line. Catching him gently, they moved him back into his house and set a watch. Siren had been apprised of the young man's history with drug abuse and knew that Doc would not have lightly given this order. It was up to her now to ensure that the drug did not harm her friend's best friend. Smiling softly, she sat opposite Sherlock, cleaning her gun and watching the flames in the fireplace, waiting for her next order.

By the time Randy had confirmed Sherlock's confinement, John and his team had rushed the remaining guards, shooting out the lights and resorting to hand-to-hand combat to take down the combatants. Swift sharp jabs and straight punches flew across the rooms, skinning knuckles and bruising fists, leaving groans and bleeding carnage in their wake.

Tiny and Ash went down, though fortunately not hit by anything more lethal than a powerful bunch of punches. John himself was sporting a bruise on his cheek, a cut lip and bloody knuckles, his hair ruffled and eyes shining with a cold light. Adrenaline spiked through his body, his moves faster, stronger, sharper. The world slowed down around him as he mowed down his enemies, moving unerringly towards the room where McAllister was waiting. His team followed in his wake.

The door was open thanks to Sherlock allowing John to walk right in, two of his team crowding in behind him. He touched his comm set. "Skater, report for clean-up."

"Gotcha Doc," came the jaunty reply.

"Edward McAllister. A pleasure."

The man sitting across the wide mahogany table flinched. Breathing harshly, his clammy hands clutched a briefcase on his lap, fingers twitching reflexively. Making no sudden moves, John walked around the table until he stood right beside the sweating, shaking man. "Tell me what you know about Jim Moriarty."

McAllister squeaked and fainted, his head thumping hard on the tabletop. John looked at him blankly then looked up at his friends. "Surely I'm not that scary."

Ben and Smalls shared a cautious glance and barely caught each other from falling as they erupted in deep booming laughter. Across the commlinks, John caught Randy and Siren chuckling too and frowned. Then he shook his head in exasperation at the breathless laughing pair before him and walked out saying, "Get them all prepped for transport. Have to send these guys back to M ASAP. And somebody get me some hot water and my medkit. Someone has to get all you idiots patched up."


	5. Confusion

Well, this update is, I think a little late. Family matters came up and I couldn't finish this chapter in time. Now, however, it is done and up for you to read and enjoy. My thanks again to all my readers, followers, and reviewers, and I hope you will like this next chapter too.

* * *

This was impossible to believe.

He couldn't have just collapsed crossing the stupid road. And yet, here he was back in the bed he'd dragged in from the dusty attic where it had been abandoned by its previous owners, because it reminded them of the son they had lost in the war. Only, he had no recollection of getting back in it, much less the house. Scowling, Sherlock thumped his fist into the bedding with frustration. There could only be one solution to this conundrum.

Bloody Mycroft.

How many months' work would have to be redone now. Sherlock groaned and fell back into bed, exhausted by something quite akin to the adrenaline crashes he was so used to observing with John. Absently he cataloged the effects on his own body and decided that adrenaline crashes were annoyingly tiring things. Pulling back the transport from The Work. And especially This Work, the most Important of all.

And yet, he couldn't quite keep his eyes from closing after weeks spent without sleep, quite unaware that a pair of amused blue eyes had been watching him for the better part of the last hour and a half. Sherlock slept and dreamed of John.

Meanwhile, certain that the detective would be well looked after for however long he was there, John had agreed to return to Mycroft's urgent summons.

A week later, he would wish he hadn't.

A week later saw John and Mycroft shouting themselves hoarse at a bloodied and battered Sebastian Moran, his mind now an open book thanks to the several experimental chemicals floating through his bloodstream. The man had told them everything he'd ever known about Jim Moriarty over that one week. Except for the one particular piece of information they unearthed from the former sniper's fragile mind that they hadn't expected to hear.

The very next morning John took Mycroft's private jet back to where his team was waiting in Nevada. He spent the rest of that week pushing his team through a crash course on Sherlock Holmes, appointing Ben as his contact for Mycroft. He briefed them on what was coming, laying it out precisely and succinctly. Before leaving, John spoke quietly with Stone, Randy and Ben. There was work to be done and no time to waste.

He returned to London via jet and arrived home in time to see the new detail. Settling in again took more of a concerted effort; he was still wired. An adrenaline junkie caught up on the high of constant access to the addictive stuff: the anticipation of the unknown.

A shrill tone cut through the tense air and John damned near shot his phone. Fortunately, the buzzer rang too and he was distracted into answering the door. He'd never been so glad to see Mycroft and his people, even if he was in disguise.

The cleaning crew took care of the flat, cleaning and creating and completely overhauling absolutely everything. John and Mycroft both inspected it thoroughly for any detail that might have been missed. They examined the smiley face on the wallpaper and the dust on the floor under Sherlock's window. Finally satisfied, they left, Mycroft handing over one last bag to the soldier, a concerned look in his eyes.

John smiled and took the bag. He watched as the elder Holmes left with his crew. The next few weeks were full of normal work, living, existing, going through the motions of life at the clinic, at the shops, buying more milk than he needed, picking up pig's blood and nicotine patches as he used to, until his friends and Mrs. Hudson all thought he had finally broken under the strain of his loss. Mycroft came often to meet him at the grave, standing silently shoulder to shoulder with the man, as he cried false tears into a thick white kerchief, hiding the one-sided conversation should anyone be watching. Mycroft always left alone after a second of laying one hand on the broken man's shoulder. Such an old ceremony that - the laying on of hands, the passing of the torch, the commitment, the responsibility, the faith. He filled his life full of such signals, tiny scents and sounds and sensations, the spec-ops commander fighting a game of survival in a terrifyingly real world, trying to rebuild a farce that hadn't existed in the first place. But it was something he had to do.

For Sherlock.

A month passed.

Mrs. Hudson left to stay with an ailing sister across the country.

And then it finally became too much. He let his tea mug fall, splattering the counter with hot tea, the dregs cooling on the tiled floor. A text chimed on his encrypted phone. A change began. The doctor finally let his emotions take over, ranting and raving until in a fit of uncharacteristic madness, he proceeded to trash the flat. 221B Baker Street descended into existential oblivion.

A man standing in the street, lounging against the side of the building in a nondescript suit, well-cut but understated, listened to the haunted cries issuing from the flat above with an ill-concealed grin, malice and joy fighting for dominance in his eyes. He bent his head over a lighter and straightened with a cigarette dangling from his thin lips. With a spring in his step, he walked away.

A cab followed. Then rotated. Some carrying passengers, others empty. All normal. Everyday. Inconsequential. Boring.

John smiled at the carnage. It was always good to redecorate.

* * *

~Scene Break~

* * *

'No', thought Sherlock, his heart beating wildly in his thin chest as if attempting to drown out the negation in his head. Once again, he'd examined the evidence, analyzed the optimum method of extraction, deduced the time it would take to bring down one more pawn of Moriarty's web down to the nanosecond. Only to be thwarted for the _third_ time in the past five months.

He jumped off the lumpy sofa he'd liberated from an old lady's basement and paced. His long legs covered the distance between the walls in five long steps. Irritation and confused frustration rolled of him in waves even as the limited action calmed his mind into set boundaries. He pushed his mind through its paces, going over the facts, intent on resolving this unexpected thorn in his side.

Moriarty's web was vast and complex enough for one man to manage alone if that man were not Mortiarty. But once inside the man's territory, it was simple enough to see the different strands of fine silk-like threads connecting the various aspects of the madman's kingdom. But they were all so deeply interrelated that it was almost impossible to bring the whole set-up down with a single blow. A web was never attached at its center where the Spider was, but only at its multiple corners, to solid objects that were viably long-lasting and steady to ensure that the structure remained standing for as long as possible.

Even after the Spider's death.

And so Sherlock had begun to look for the pillars of Moriarty's empire, deducing correctly from the pool incident that any clues would be connected to Moriarty's past like Carl Powers was. Mycroft had helped put together Moriarty's life, the files from governments around the world as well as Interpol, Scotland Yard and NSA still carefully arranged chronologically in his computer. But in all of them, the important parts that should have included the man's criminal affiliations were blatantly absent.

Still, it was possible to piece together much of the information from the blanks themselves. And after that, it had taken Sherlock mere days to hunt down one of the pillars in France and bring it down. The second, in Italy, was a link found in France and led to the doors of a well-known tailor. The man tailored all of Moriarty's Westwoods and had been set up for life with benefits and a retirement package few tailors were ever privileged to see.

Of course, the tailor was also the man to go to for the boy trade that Moriarty took an eager hand in considering his orientation. The tailor had made quite a bit of money off the markets in his years of work with Moriarty. But the reasons for his termination were sentimental rather than mercenary. Moriarty considered the man as a father-figure. It was enough of an incentive for Sherlock to take the man apart himself.

A tailor for a soldier.

A father-figure for a friend.

Alberto Marras for John Watson.

A heart for a heart.

The man wasn't even missed for the few days it took for Sherlock to take up the next few leads and eliminate a few more of Moriarty's second level thugs and go-betweens in the area. Coincidentally the slave trade rings and several cold cases concerning the kidnappings of young boys were brought down at the same time, but no-one other than Mycroft so much as got a hint of Sherlock's involvement. He did have to send in a crew to dispose of the tailor before people came knocking at the door after all. A door that was locked from the inside.

Sherlock was long gone by then, on the trail of the drug lord in Russia. The man was one of the many spokes in Moriarty's wheel, but was also a prominent figure in the Russian underground. The plan had been easy and he'd maneuvered himself into position after many an agonizing week working for the drug lord's thieving underlings, dealing with the cut-throat world where sticking a knife between a couple of ribs was the same as extorting a sum of money for a lease. Over time though, things fell into place, and then only the man himself was left. Although he'd had nothing to do with the younger brother's death. At the time he had taken it as a boon that saved time for him and gone ahead with his original plan for the Royal Ballet at the end of the week.

It was the first time someone had interfered. A short stocky someone had drawn away the guards always surrounding the target and he'd taken his chance with the cyanide and stumbled away. It was a day later that all the peripheral events of that ballet night came to his attention during the cleanup. But he'd simply acknowledged the facts and moved on considering that the ends were exactly what he himself had wanted.

The Edward McAllister case had been obvious from the start and he would have got here sooner if Russia hadn't been nearer. It was a clear money trail that could be followed throughout the world if one knew where to look. And after having spent hours pouring over Moriarty's files and methods, not to mention spending days with his cronies, Sherlock knew where to look.

It was obvious though that someone else was on the case with him. But try as he might, he'd got nowhere with his investigations into who else could be involved with taking down what seemed to be Moriarty's web. Unless those very same targets were involved in someone else's high stakes games. Mycroft had been no help for once. And so Sherlock had immersed himself into his research and plans.

However, before he could even begin to put his plan into action, he'd been _cut off_ and the target brought down in the shortest time possible that would prevent him from being involved in the event or its aftermath in any way.

It was infuriating.

Not the least because he couldn't get any leads on who these vigilantes were. And there were never any of Mycroft's men in convenient sight during that time. Which obviously meant someone else was riding on his observations and enacting them. But a thorough examination of his premises had yielded no results, nor were there any suspicious strangers around that lingered and watched him. It was maddening.

And there were still no leads for him to see. Whoever was 'helping' him was careful not to leave any traces. At least none that his tired, Moriarty-obsessed mind could see.

And now this. The third time he'd been completely cut off. Not even able to set foot near his target. Fuming, he did the one thing that might calm him down now.

He put a call through to Mycroft asking for the update on his flatmate.

Phone still in his hand, conscious of the silence at the other end, Sherlock wondered when John had become his 'flatmate'. Had something happened? Had his priorities changed? Sherlock checked his mind palace for the summer wing he kept for John Watson. But nothing had changed. He still wanted to go back to John. He still loved John. He still needed John. And he was doing all of this, the running, the hiding, the killing, all of it for John. Then what …

Oh.

Coming to a sudden stop in the corner of the room, Sherlock held his hands up against the fading light of the setting sun splashing his hands a dull red.

Combined with the lack of a suitable output for his vendetta against Moriarty and his forced separation from his John, Sherlock had eventually given in to doubt. The darkest hours of the night knew the fears and uncertainties he whispered to the wind, the tears he's cried, and the moans of longing he'd stifled. When he first gave in to the torture, the power his position gave him was like the kick he got from cocaine, raw, pure, and unadulterated. Used to physical effort in chasing down criminals and alibis alike, he'd been in perfect form as he pushed Alberto over the edge into madness, his throat raw from screaming and his body painted with his own blood. And that last jerk that killed the man brought with it a sense of satisfaction he'd missed since he'd faked his death at Bart's so long ago. His hand was still heavy with the memory of the gun in his palm.

The hands that were red with the blood of his victims. All the people he had killed to get further in the game, all of it done to get back home to John. But now that he was no more clean, would John even want him?

Unable to bear that thought, Sherlock canceled the call and headed to the bathroom, dropping his clothes as he went. He looked at himself in the mirror, categorizing every cut, every bruise, every wound on his once unblemished body, and knew that John would know regardless of whether or not he told him. His face was pinched and paler than usual, the cheekbones more angular. It was not the face John knew. Shoulders bowed with the heaviness of the emotions flowing through him, unarticulated but not unacknowledged, Sherlock immersed himself in the stream of hot water beating down on his shoulders, trying to forget.

Far away in a flat in London, a blond man in a dark blue jumper stared into the lost expression in the grey eyes of his best friend on a grainy video feed, his chest unbearably tight with the longing to hold the man he loved safe in his arms again.


	6. Withdrawal

It's great to see the sustained interest everyone has in this story. Developing the story is taking more time than I thought, though I want to write what I would like to read, and I can only hope you like it too.

Once again, thank you to my reviewers, and everyone who left kudos. Do Read and Review!

* * *

Sherlock was aware of the possible impossibility of what he'd set out to accomplish when he'd started out on this mad scheme. Sitting now in this damp, dingy shack, worse even than many of the places his homeless network called home every rainy evening in London, he knew that this was the only way to end things.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

He bit back a moan of longing. London. That was as far as he'd allowed himself to think about home … about him. It was the closest he'd gone to thinking about _him_ in months. Because thinking about him _hurt_.

In physical pain spreading from the beating organ in his chest, his body felt like it was twisting in upon itself, self-loathing and recriminations pouring into his stomach like hot acid, eating away at his self-control, dissolving his resolutions, breaking him down from the inside, until all he wanted to do was to go home to him, throw himself at his feet and beg him for mercy because he didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve _him_ anymore.

And that was the one thing he wished he could undo from everything he'd done in the past 9 months. Wished that he could scrub the blood off his hands and off his body and from under his fingernails because he would _know_ the minute he set eyes on Sherlock and then he would turn away and Sherlock would break and fall and shatter. Forever. Alone. Again.

Night after night, his mind, his one asset that put him so much above the rest of the common world, made him better than everyone, turned against him. Turned ON him. Assaulting him again and again with horrific nightmares in which he killed and tortured and murdered his victims over and over and over until he woke in the middle of the dark night filled with shifting shades of black, gasping and sweating and crying, keening soundlessly, helplessly in the caverns of his mind, the doors of his mind palace shut fast against him.

He had a good idea now of how _he_ would have felt when he had those nightmares from his time in the war. The sleepless nights, the sweating, heated dreams, the shivers that racked his body as it cooled, the pain in his heart, the guilt in his mind; how did John _live_ with this every single day!

John.

_John. John. John._

Sweet, wonderful, caring, _loving_ John.

Oh, how he missed his doctor.

Sherlock flung his lean body, more emaciated than it usually was into the cot he called a bed, trying to wrap himself in the thin blankets. The more of Moriarty's web he brought down, the more he wondered how he would be able to go back to his John. The one person in the world who had ever accepted him. But there was blood on his hands now. Would John ever accept him again?

Look at him?

Trust him?

Love him?

Save him?

Nameless fears reared their heads again and Sherlock whimpered, noting for the first time that the shivers had become worse. Definitely sick then. He took the medication and pulled another blanket over himself, trying to warm his body against the gnawing cold and the loneliness in his heart.

Tired and sad, the fever took hold of him and he gave in to the weakness of his body, drifting off into the arms of Morpheus.

His fevered dreams, as always, were of John. The first time they had met and Sherlock had seen something different about the simple army doctor, something that put him above the crowd of mindless bodies waiting to die. But not John. Not his John. His John was a survivor, he'd won the harshest life could throw at him and had come out the other side; not unscathed, definitely wounded, but he hadn't given up.

Sherlock couldn't bear to think what life would have been like for him now if he had never met John. His friend, his anchor, his strength, his love. He drew in a shuddering breath at the thought, a fear that always stayed with him ever since Moriarty's game at the pool.

And there was that look in his eyes, those blue eyes that made him lose his train of thought whenever John looked at him. Two splashes of brilliant colour, so haunted and yet … so expressive, so alive. John, who had looked at Sherlock and seen a human being worthy of companionship, worthy of friendship, just _worthy_.

_'That was amazing!'_

_"Do you think so?'_

_'Of course, it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.'_

_'That's not what people usually say.'_

_'What do they usually say?'_

_'Piss off.'_

And John had laughed it off and proceeded to blurt out his fascination with Sherlock's deductive powers at the crime scene. Sherlock hadn't expected to feel a jolt of something warm at his expression, open and honest, and completely captivating. He'd insulted him then to hide how pleased he was. And he'd learned not to bother hiding it again. There had never been anyone so blatantly appreciative of his mind. John's special smile that lit up his eyes and his face just for Sherlock had become its own reward.

John was his addiction, his drug, his only hope for sanity and Sherlock knew he would never have peace, never be able to live without his John by his side again.

Sherlock groaned and shifted restlessly in his sleep, still shivering. But he was tired after many days of prowling the streets in the cold wet weather and he didn't have his John to nag him into eating. Still in the half-sleep of the sick, he passed out.

When he next opened his eyes again, he was sure his fevered brain was imagining things again. How else would his John be sitting by his side, holding a cooling cloth to his forehead? But he couldn't let even this apparition go without telling it what was most important. He opened his parched lips and felt a warm wet cloth pass over them, moistening his lips. A small cup of water appeared and then strong muscular arms and shoulders helped him sit up and drink before letting him lie down again. He opened his lips, not willing to let this one chance go. His voice was almost gone, but he had to make sure that his John knew.

His urgency did not go unnoticed and the apparition came closer, putting its face, John's face close to his own. He whispered as clearly as he could, trembling with the exertion.

"John. I love you."

* * *

~ Scene Break: Change of POV ~

* * *

Straightening up, John smiled softly at his charge, brushing a gentle hand through his hair, limp with sweat and sickness. Tenderness made his throat constrict when the young man instinctively pushed up into the caress and he slid his hand down to gently cup his cheek, smoothing his thumb over those sharp cheekbones that defined the youthful face. The man relaxed into his touch, his body releasing its tenseness. Unwilling to move yet, John sat there for a long time, just carding his fingers through the dark hair, his movements soothing and hypnotic, eventually lulling his charge back into a fitful sleep. Checking his temperature, John leaned down to kiss the hot forehead before getting back to work.

From outside came the low rumble of most of his team as they went about their work. Soon enough they would disperse to pursue their latest target, taking over from the genius lying unheeding in the bed inside.

A week ago, Ash, as the most inconspicuous of his team, had been dispatched to London with the news that John's best friend was behaving rather unlike himself. Ben and Randy had seen the genius awake at all hours of the night, pacing endlessly till the sun rose and he went back out to chase up some lead or other. While this was regular Sherlock behavior, none of them had seen him sleep for more than one hour at any time of the day, or eat at all for well over a week.

Concerned about the young man, Ben had sent Ash to talk to the Doc himself, not wanting to risk such sensitive information to electronic means. Disguised as a patient, Ash had presented himself at the clinic and laid out the whole story. Needless to say, John was hard-pressed to keep his rising anger at bay long enough to go smack some sense into one mad genius.

Then the news came in. 'A sick Violin needs tuning. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.' It was the code John had given them if ever they needed John to come in for Sherlock. He made immediate plans to leave, informing Mycroft of his sudden need for transport, trusting the man to activate their backup plan when he left.

Two days later John had found himself in Morocco and Sherlock was delirious with pneumonia.

John had simply shrugged off his leather jacket, set up his medical kit and supplies, and gone to work.

Working quickly through some simple tests, he had diagnosed Sherlock to have entered into pneumatic fever barely a few hours before he was able to reach him. Keeping Ash to help him out, John worked out the treatment he would have to ensure that Sherlock followed if he was to recover. There was never a more difficult patient than his genius lover when he denied being sick at all.

Being Sherlock's in-house doctor had its benefits. He knew Sherlock's habits as well as Sherlock knew his and was able to deduce well enough what his friend needed at a particular point in time. Spending day in and day out, literally, with the same person had to rub off on you. So medically speaking, John felt safe enough in putting Sherlock on a dose of erythromycin and broth. The lack of a cough was a good sign since he was sure the man was in no way capable of keeping a congestion in the lungs under control in his condition. With Ash's help, he would be able to pull Sherlock out of this and maybe lock him up somewhere until this target practice was well and truly done with.

'Mycroft wouldn't mind and might even help,' John reflected as he set about cooking the evening meals for his troop, the men having thoughtfully done the shopping earlier in the day. The man was looking more and more worried every time they met, though he would neither hide nor say a word whenever John took in his appearance with a critical eye. Although there had been a time, not too long ago when John had had to quite firmly order the British Government to pull himself together and 'get a nap, for God's sake!' when he'd turned up earlier than usual at Sherlock's faux grave, looking the picture of death warmed up.

Interestingly, he'd received a call from Anthea later that evening thanking him for 'shouting some sense' into her stubborn boss. John had quipped that perhaps one Holmes was not quite so different to deal with than the other. Anthea had allowed that it might well be so for one Doctor John Watson, thanked him again, and canceled the call.

John wondered whether she'd called him a witch doctor then.

A sequence of taps on his shoulder brought him back to the world and he nodded his thanks to the young man who he'd asked to stay with him. Young, blond and eager to help, Ash could not speak but was accomplished in sign language, Morse code and lip-reading. As a boy, John had taken him under his wing in the army, training with him and supporting him until they were shipped to different regiments in Afghanistan. Through all his tours and the stint as SRR, Ash had remained staunchly by his side, after John particularly asked for his transfer into his unit.

John took the broth off the fire and put on the stew and coffee, knowing that the boys would be ravenous after a good 'outing'. He took the broth in to Sherlock, woke him up and fed him, wanting to get as much nutrition into him as his body would allow. Though still half asleep, Sherlock didn't protest much and allowed John to spoon-feed him, occasionally sponging off the sweat from his face, neck and shoulders indicative of the fight that his fevered body was putting up against the illness.

When he couldn't take more than half a bowl, John tucked Sherlock back into bed and returned to the kitchen, storing the rest of the broth for later. An hour later he helped his friend to use the bathroom, mindful of the slippery tiles. There was always the danger of Sherlock becoming aware enough to notice John and the rest of the team, but the fever was still heavy enough and John was able to keep this secret a secret. He would deal with the fallout later; and he knew there would be a fallout later. Sherlock hated having things kept from him.

Day one was spent in John keeping track of Sherlock's food and medication, watching him while he slept, and still making his team an equal priority.

The old unit – Ben, Stone, Smalls, Ash, Siren and Randy – watched their quiet Doc juggle everything with as much innate equanimity in this backwater place as he used to back in the day with bullets flying around and men lying bleeding into the hot sand under his nimble hands. 72 times they went with him under the aegis of the SRR, following his quiet undemanding command into missions spanning three continents and never once did they see him fail to bring his man through if he so inclined his mind to it.

It was quite simple. He brought them through too. And if the Doc was so invested in this slim unassuming man to break cover for him, then they intended to see that they were both kept safe. It was time to return the favour.

Not that they could ever repay Doc. Not even with their lives. Doc would follow them to Hell just to shout at them for being foolish enough to get hit after the years he'd spent keeping them alive. No, no stunts. Just a quiet watch, to make sure that Commander John 'T.C.' Watson got to come back home to the man he so obviously loved.

John had no idea that he was the topic of many of his team's quiet conversations. But he was glad that the boys were having fun even through this mission. They were on the trail of a woman called Nadia. No last name. She was a conduit, but a powerful one. One of the few women in Moriarty's circle, she carried information between the various players on the web. There were rumors of her having taken something of value to an Adrian Delgato, a Spaniard, just over the border. John wanted the information confirmed.

And then he wanted Delgato.

The man was a sadist, involved in many high profile kidnapping and torture cases with the victims always turning up dead and their bodies bruised and battered beyond all recognition. Or would be, if he didn't leave their faces untouched. While at first he had been a self-made dom-for-hire who killed the people he serviced, he became more high profile once Moriarty chose to notice him.

A dangerous man, but, and here John's lips curved into a cruel smile, undoubtedly a brash one. John polished his Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, a cherished possession, after lunch, focusing on the simple task to calm his mind.

The day passed and John caught up on some fitful sleep that night, broken only to check intermittently on Sherlock. John went to try and catch up on another hour as dawn approached, but ended up over-sleeping for a few hours. Blearily, he rose to make the breakfast and put on a pot of coffee before the teams shifted. John sat with his teams, talking and chatting, catching up on the stories of wives and boyfriends and children.

A few hours later, while John was making dinner, a series of taps on his shoulder told him that Sherlock was stirring again. John nodded to Ash. "Watch this mess and don't let it burn. I'll be back."

Leaving the blond at the stove, he went back to Sherlock. The man was half-awake, shaking under his blankets. John laid the back of his hand against his friend's forehead. The fever had not abated, but he wasn't cold either. Sherlock moaned, his brows drawing together in pain, lips parting in a gasp as he tried to curl in on himself, his long fingers curling into fists. 'Too tight,' John thought, 'too tight.'

John knew these signs, but he was unwilling to wake Sherlock. It wasn't time to let him know about John's involvement in the hunt, not with the latest developments. But he needed to shake him out of the nightmares. While he stood there undecided, his hands hovering a hair's breadth above his friend's shoulders, Sherlock moaned brokenly, "John _don't_. Don't leave me."

John wasn't even aware when his body moved of its accord, but seconds later, he found himself under the blankets with Sherlock, shifting the man so he could bring his right arm around the over-heated body wracked with tremors. At his touch, Sherlock weakly curled himself around the familiar warmth his mind instinctively recognized as 'his John' and clutched at the shirt John was wearing. John curled his right hand around the slim shoulders still shaking from his internal turmoil, turning his lover into his body, stroking his arm softly while his left hand found the inky locks now resting over his heart.

He hummed a tune Sherlock often played for him when he had trouble sleeping. His chest vibrated and Sherlock sighed, softly sinking back to sleep as he stopped shivering. For a long while John lay there, content to just hold his love safe and close, until Ash came to call him, not at all surprised at seeing the two men in bed together.

Once in the kitchen, he held out a phone to John who went outside to answer it after peeking in at the food. It was very late, John noted; it was almost night. 16 hours from when the boys had left. "Yes?"

"Target acquired, Commander. Package prepped for transport. Sending coordinates to Rainman now."

"Casualties?"

"No friendlies hit."

"Good. Tiny Tim and Boulder wrap it up and call it in. Coordinate with the Sharks. Tell Rainman to get the score from the Legionnaires. Big Ben take sit. rep. and report to me. Injured come along in to get Doctored as soon as you hit base."

"Heard you. Out."

John threw the prepaid disposable phone into a waiting pan of water shorting out the plastic box. It would be thrown five miles away after it was wiped for prints. John drew his encrypted phone from his pocket and sent a missed call to Mycroft on a specific number. Ten minutes later he called back. When the call was taken he spoke one sentence. "Hope is dead."

The line disconnected and Mycroft stared at the payphone with something like a fierce joy, the expression fleeting but strong. He gave a short nod to Anthea who arranged for the payphone's number to be changed within the next 12 hours until which time the phone-booth would have be thoroughly cleaned and sterilized, leaving no clue of the last user.

All around the street, several individuals in different states of dress, engaged in different kinds of work, watched them as they came and left. Watched patiently for several hours after the cleaners had finished with the phone-booth and gone. Watched the street and the cameras and the roofs and the alleys. Watched till night fell and nothing more could be seen. Only then did they agree to leave and regroup elsewhere, leaving two of their number to their night vigil while the rest of London slept in peace.


	7. Under The Skin

Thank you all! Your reviews are always highly appreciated. Glad you like the story. Keep reading and reviewing!

And here's the next chapter up for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

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Waking in his own room blinking in the sunlight, John took a moment to stretch, working the kinks out of his stiff muscles, groaning as a shoulder popped. Looking around the room he noticed the lack of dust and clean clothes neatly pressed kept on the chair. Getting up, he collected a pair of pants and went into the bathroom wanting a long hot shower.

By the time he got out, he had reviewed in his head all the events of the past month, an exercise that helped him keep things in perspective. 'Not unlike Sherlock's Mind Palace,' John smirked at the thought. He started from Sherlock's near relapse and the subsequent beginning of his slow recovery, at which point John had decided to leave before the detective's sharp eyes recognized him to more recent events, before thinking back to an amusing memory. Ash, who had stayed behind to care for Sherlock, had related his conversation with the man.

_'Who are you?'_

_Ash signed out his name._

_Sherlock frowned and turned his full attention on the young man in that piercing way that made people feel like he was looking through them. Apparently deciding not to grill the man for answers he wouldn't need, he continued with, 'Why are you here?'_

_'To care for me while I was sick. For how long? A week.' Falling silent, Sherlock folded his hands under his chin, thinking back to the hazy memories of those days._

_'Was John Watson here?'_

_The man responded negatively. 'You are wearing one of his jumpers,' Sherlock remarked pointedly. 'You don't have bags under your eyes, so you have been sleeping at least 8 hours a day. Which means you haven't been staying up nights looking after me. Or at least not all the time since you do look tired. And you don't have the slumped shoulders, limp collars and rumpled creases of a man who's been flying too often causing jet lag. So you can't have been traveling at all in the past week or so, and you are not the only one who has been taking care of me. It is, therefore, reasonable to assume that since you have recently been in contact with the doctor in the past week and you insist that you haven't gone anywhere, then John was actually here. That's a fresh jumper. It still smells like John. Whereas you do not smell clinical at all. Would you like to try again?'_

_Unexpectedly, Ash signaled only one name:_ Mycroft.

_Sherlock swore._

John was amazed that the detective had been distracted from his valid line of thought to believing – at least they all hoped so – that Mycroft had arranged for John's jumpers (of all things) to be flown out to Ash every other day. Still, it was the better option than the detective knowing about John's involvement. The boys had even cleared out all traces of ever having lived there for the better part of the week during Sherlock convalescence.

Since then it had been a long few weeks of keeping up the farce and John was tired of waiting about and doing nothing while his team was having fun with all the tactical prep and execution they were all good at. Trained to be a chameleon by profession, John had been the most successful spec-ops leader in years and until his invalidation home had been on call for jobs almost until the very last day, barring time spent in the hospital repairing his shoulder. He didn't expect his therapist to understand him considering she wasn't cleared for information on his undercover life. Write a blog. Ha! As if a life like his could ever be talked about like that. Still, she was a useful cover and it kept up the illusion of a routine. He smirked to himself.

Getting up to make yet another cuppa, John glanced at his phone, willing it to ring. Several preparations had been made in the past few months and it would soon be time to put those plans back into play. He had another skin to wear and he needed to fill it out before he swung things back into the game.

His phone rang; not the encrypted one. It was Lestrade. He took the call.

"Hello, Greg."

"John. How are you?"

"I'm good, Greg. I'm good." It was a routine opening to their conversations and John was careful to keep his voice tired, weary but steady, letting the DI pick up on the cues that his body language would later supply in the pub. The man was still worried that John would become depressive and lock himself away from the world again.

"Just finished up a case, you know, those murders down on Hyde Park. Much later than he would, I guess. But better late than never, I say."

Greg was rambling. John wondered why.

"Anyway, I was wondering whether you'd like to go to the pub today? We could catch up."

"Of course, Greg. I'll come down at 7. Same table?"

"Sure. See you there."

"Thanks, Greg." The line disconnected leaving John frowning at his phone in confusion. Usually, Greg liked to talk about the weather and the cases he was on, drawing John into the conversation from a medical perspective. And he hadn't mentioned Sherlock even obliquely after the first month that John had rejoined society. That in itself put a red flag up. Taking out his other phone, John called a few numbers not stored in the mobile, speaking in terse short sentences to the people on the other end, queries and replies flying back and forth until John was satisfied there was no more to learn.

But there was the rest of the day to pass. Finished his cooling tea, John got off his chair and padded back into his room to get dressed. A short text to Mycroft ensured he would be 'abducted' again once he got 4 blocks away from the flat. Accordingly, he pulled on a light shirt, wore his most comfortable jumper, a loose pair of jeans, and his running shoes, sliding his bomber jacket on, on the way out, the front door of 221B shutting firmly behind him.

Stepping away from the door, John glanced around, casually scouring the street for watchful eyes, covering the action by smoothing down his jacket and putting up the collar in a move reminiscent of his friend. Once satisfied, he started walking towards Hyde Park. As expected, four blocks later, a familiar sleek black car slid up beside him and the rear door opened. Hanging his head with a sigh, John got it and faced Mycroft. Anthea was nowhere to be seen.

"Well, this is new."

"Indeed," replied the elder Holmes brother. John just grinned.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company here rather than at your office?"

"The fact that we are not going to the office."

"That is obvious since we turned in the opposite direction about 5 minutes ago," allowed John amiably.

Mycroft remained silent, staring at John. John in turn looked out the window, the passing landscape barely registering in his mind and yet the soldier in him knew exactly where they were going. When they reached the farmhouse, John got out of the car and stretched. He heard Mycroft sliding out behind him and stepped aside. Before them, the doors of the mini-castle opened and Anthea stepped out, for once without the ever-present Blackberry in hand. She shook hands with John then moved to stand beside her boss as he preceded John into the house.

Around them the grass swished in the wind, flowers bloomed lazily, birds swept by on air currents and a lone eagle hovered on the spin of a gyre. Nothing hinted at the plans being made in that quaint little house that existed in a time of its own. Stone and mortar, wood and earth heard it all, but kept their own counsel; their tongues long since resigned to an eternal silence.

Anthea accompanied John back to London in the evening, dropping him off at his preferred pub to meet Lestrade. The doctor made his way through the slowly filling bar to a corner table near the back, where they could sit and talk in relative peace. The bartender was a friend and ensured that they weren't disturbed.

At the antique grandfather clock behind the bar struck chimed 7, John saw the familiar figure of Lestrade making his way towards him. John rose to greet his friend, noting the tired, blood-shot eyes, the slight growth of a beard and the drawn, pale features. He raised his brows inquisitively at the approaching man and got an exasperated frown in return.

"Oh, do sit down John. No need to go all 'doctor' on me before I've had a pint."

"I wouldn't need to if I could see you weren't looking like you'd be better off on a holiday … or five."

"Says the man who refused to talk to anybody or even look out the bloody window for close on 5 months."

John waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, but _you_ are not a doctor."

Gregory Lestrade gave John Watson a Look and both men broke into shared laughter just as the bartender set down their drinks on the table. John thanked him and handed him a card. Greg looked up at that. "Are we celebrating something?"

"The existence of beer."

"I'll drink to that." As one the two men raised their glasses, clinked them and drank a hearty draught.

For a while they talked of everyday matters; Greg's marriage, the latest case, Anderson's dismissal on the grounds of sexual harassment (John privately laughed at that one, wishing he could tell Sherlock about it), even the weather. But as the drinks flowed and the evening turned into night, the men gradually became quiet and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Seeing his friend's hesitation John took the plunge. "What is it, Greg? You look troubled. What has happened?"

Greg nursed his drink, looking at the stained table-top, one finger tracing the rim of the mug like a dog chasing its own tail. John finished his drink in silence, not wanting to push the other man. Finally, exhaling loudly through his mouth, Greg looked up at John, raised his drink to him in a salut and gulped it down, then setting it down with a decided thunk.

"I think I'm being followed," he said in a soft voice. John didn't pretend to not hear him.

"When did you notice?"

"Two weeks ago."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"I didn't want you to worry." The look on John's face shut him up quickly. "I'm telling you now."

Passing a hand over his face, John fought to control his expression and his breathing. Greg watched him anxiously, wondering why he would react so strongly. But then he remembered the feeling of being hounded constantly, of not sleeping nights because he was afraid of the stalker getting into his house, attacking his wife. The lack of sleep was telling in the office and Donovan had had to cover for him a few times. A throat being cleared brought him back to the present with a jerk and he found a different John looking back at him.

This was the Captain who he'd seen and learnt to recognize at various crime scenes when the detective was being difficult and had needed to be reined in. At those times, only the Captain could bring the genius to attention and make him stop. He was also often the peace-maker between several parties and Sherlock when everyone got too frustrated with John's flatmate. Amusing as it was, Captain Watson held the only line to Sherlock's attention and occasional obedience. It had come as no surprise to him when John had confided last year that the flatmates were finally a happy couple. He had congratulated John heartily, wishing him the best. No-one could have guessed what would happen only months later. With a mental shake of his head, he brought his own attention back to John.

"I'm going to ignore the compulsion to bump you upside your head for not saying anything for so long," John said in a strained voice. Greg had the grace to look sheepish. "But now, you will explain to me what exactly you saw, felt, observed since you first thought you were being followed."

Greg gulped under the heat of the glare from the Captain. It was irrational to be feeling like a 5 year old caught at stealing tarts, but there it was. Squaring his shoulders, but keeping his eyes on the table, he began.

"A month ago, Jen and I were returning from the movies. It was late, but not so late that the streets would be empty. I'd had a feeling before this, but I'd never been able to spot anyone and I had just put it down to paranoia. This job and all that running around after Sherlock on those cases; gave me a healthy appetite for paranoia." He glanced up nervously at John looking for any sign that mentioning the detective might be distressing for the doctor. Seeing none, he continued.

"I kept a watch around for any sign of anyone watching all the way back home, but it was only when we'd settled to sleep that I heard a sort of scuffling around at the back of the house. An investigation revealed nothing, but that night was the first that I decided to stay up and keep watch." Greg took a long swallow from the fresh bottle of beer the bartender delivered to their table.

"Paid off. I saw a shadow on the street from the bedroom window. He had a hoodie up, but his head was raised as if he was looking right at my window. When I got downstairs, he was gone."

"Definitely a man, then?" questioned John.

"Looked like it. Clothes were well fitted. Couldn't have been a woman."

"How many times did you see the man after that? Ever in the day time?"

"From a distance, I think so, yes. Dark hoodie, black or green, dark blue jeans, average height, or he may have been slouching, and no other details whatsoever. Either he's a hired hand or someone isn't taking any chances."

"And more recently? What happened now to make you tell me all of this?"

"I saw the man on a roof opposite the New Scotland Yard building with a telescope pointing right at my window. Never saw it there before, never saw it there again. Of course, I was in a window diagonally below and behind a curtain, so I doubt I was seen, but I have no doubt that it was the same man. By the time a search could be called together, and the place investigated, the man had disappeared without a trace."

John was a bit taken aback by this information. As far as he knew, all the snipers allocated to the three of them had been taken care of by him personally. And none of his associates had caught even a whisper of any other tails on any of them. So where then, did this one come from? He turned his attention back to Greg.

"When was this? How long ago?"

"About a week."

"Been seen since?"

"Once. Outside my house. He was lounging around and smoking when I got back home. Thankfully Jen's gone to visit with her parents and sister. Won't be back for a while."

"Hence the perfect time to tell me," mused John, already running through scenarios in his head. They would have to catch this man. And as he was proving to be clever, it would be difficult. But perhaps not.

"I'm going to call in some unorthodox help. If you happen to see an influx of homeless people around you, anywhere, anytime, don't shoo them off. Understand?"

Greg nodded in understanding. "I know Chessy. Happened to bump into a few of them when I first knew Sherlock. They're good people."

"Yes," replied John, and his voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Yes, they are."

* * *

~ Scene Break ~

* * *

Sherlock's Homeless Network was still up and running, obviously getting their orders from someone even though he didn't want to be found. John had met a few of them on his runs around the city with his mad flatmate. It had taken time, but he had been able to get through to a few of them, befriending them and tasking them to keep an eye on Sherlock in return for medication and healthcare when he could provide it.

Unknown to Sherlock, at least until he'd disappeared, John had rented 221C from Mrs. Hudson for his new friends, and turned the cold drafty basement into a warm and inviting refuge. The braver ones came often and left bearing gifts of food, clothing and medicine for those who needed it. Sometimes they came to simply talk to the doctor, grateful for someone who listened to them. Chessy was one of the more regular ones. Bright, cheerful and ruddy-cheeked, she would waltz into the room – as the only one John had trusted with a spare key to the apartment – and text the doctor from a prepaid mobile. She was always eager to tell him things about the city and this time, John was the one grateful to have a dedicated pair of eyes and ears around the vast city.

John was at work at the clinic when he got a text from a prepaid number. Making his excuses, and feigning a pain in his leg, he limped out and caught a cab back to Baker Street. Letting himself in, he went to the basement apartment and knocked on the door. Hearing a thump and a giggle, he stepped back and was soon greeted with a wide smile as Chessy ushered him in. Looking around, he smiled when he discovered that she had been reading 'Alice in Wonderland' while ensconced on the sofa, the book now lying on the carpet, hence the thump. A fire was burning in the grate and John settled into the high back chair, relishing the warmth. Chessy joined him, but sat on the hearth-rug, facing the fire. Neither broke the silence for a while.

A hand shook his shoulder and John jolted into awareness. The lights were on, he noted immediately and there was a decided crick in his neck. Groaning, he rose from the chair and stretched, turning in the same move. Chessy was still there, although there was now supper on the table; bread and cheese and tea, by the looks of it.

"Figured you might want a bite, Doctor John." She sounded reproachful. "You haven't been sleeping well."

John wondered who the doctor was when his new friends started looking out for him. He gave the girl a small smile, "Well, might as well eat something now. Join me?"

Chessy gave a short nod and sat herself down at the small table, while John poured tea for them both. It looked like Mrs. Hudson's third-best set; he'd have to thank her after this.

"So, what news, Charissa?"

"You know I don't like that name," she pouted, frowning. John smiled and passed over a cup of tea, waiting for the girl to speak.

Taking a sip, Chessy began. "Some of the younger boys have been assigned to the cop-man and the landlady. The older ones stay in the shadows, but they're keeping an eye on things. There was someone following both of them for a while. Never at the same time. Never on the same day. And never both together. We're not sure if he's alone but there's never anyone else with him. He looks like the cop-man described him, but some of them say he look taller. Like 6 feet. Anyway, all he's done so far is watch them. Doesn't even seem to carry a gun. At least not that anyone's seen. But," She paused for another sip. "Looks like you had a tail too. Twice. Both times when you were with the cop-man."

John grimaced. He hated missing things. But come to think of it, he'd never felt like he was being watched and all his cursory sweeps had never revealed anything out of place. Yet this man had been around, apparently close enough for the network to pick him up. He jerked out of his thoughts when Chessy added, "And Jenks heard of a rumor about a guy staying in those abandoned houses."

"Which ones?"

"The Nicholas Cage Mansion on Park Lane."

"Are you sure? That place is locked up tight."

Swallowing a sip of tea, the girl replied, "No, we checked it out. There's definitely someone there."

"Right, thanks Chessy," John smiled at the girl who immediately picked up her book again, then turned to his phone, texting almost immediately. Three replies beeped in one after the other, and upon reading them, John relaxed marginally.

Maybe it was time to take over from Sherlock for a bit. London had to be kept safe after all. And their own Consulting Detective was out gallivanting after criminals all the way across the world. It really wasn't fair what he had to do for Sherlock, John mused. Maybe he could talk Mycroft into giving him a salary for it now. It was worth a shot.


	8. Expect the Unexpected

Well, the previous chapter was fun to write and, I hope, annoyingly vague. So many of you have read this story now, it looks like I'm doing something right. As always, thank you so much for reading this and for sending in your reviews. It's been a fun ride so far. Hope you like this next chapter!

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Sequestered in Mycroft's little farm in the country, Mycroft and John sat at the low coffee table in the dining room, the one sitting back against the wing-backed chair at the fireplace, looking pensively into a tumbler of whiskey, the other leaning over the coffee table, examining the maps, sheets of notes and numerous sketches littering its surface. The soft scratches of a pen taking notes and the occasional crackle of the fire were the only sounds in the room. The light was shaky, flickering across the room, casting it in shades of darkness varied with light. The silence was not heavy with things unsaid, but rather watchful, waiting for something … something.

It was late into the night when a call came through for John who leaned back into the sofa, talking companionably to someone who Mycroft assumed was one of the team he'd left with Sherlock. But then again, he couldn't be too sure. The man had, over the past few days, showed a remarkably varied character to one that they had grown used to, but that wasn't the end of it. No. John Watson was proving to be a very resourceful man, helping refine several of Mycroft's strategies in a way that made them even more subtle. His resources were more widespread than anyone had expected. But …

Mycroft shook his head slightly, dispelling his thoughts. Lately, it seemed his thoughts had been revolving around the fascinating doctor a bit too much. Both Holmes brothers always loved a good puzzle, something to sink their brain into, to pull apart and reach into its core, and understand it in a way that normal people would never be able to follow. They were rightly proud of their intelligence, but where Mycroft hid his intuitive powers of deduction to gather intelligence and further his causes, Sherlock could not resist standing in the spotlight and look for the admiration of the crowd. Unfortunately, that had never happened.

Until Doctor Watson came along. And now, today, Mycroft was thankful for it. Not that he would ever say it. But he suspected John already knew. The man was becoming increasingly intuitive about both the Holmes brothers. Mycroft didn't know whether or not to be pleased about that. He brought his mind back to the task at hand when he noticed John watching him. He raised his brow at the small smirk on the doctor's lips.

"Our time frame is set. It has been over a year and Sherlock's missed his birthday. In two weeks it will be my birthday! It is the perfect time to set things in motion. I trust you're still with me on this?"

Though bemused by the doctor's insistence on the timing around birthdays, there could be no other answer. Mycroft nodded once, his eyes never leaving the doctors' own.

"I will leave in a few hours. The boys should be here with my gear in an hour. If you would rather not be connected to this, I'll understand."

"Please John. We both know what is at stake here. After four months, this seems to be the best course of action to get at the root of things. I should rather be asking you if you really want to do this to yourself."

John Watson gave him an indecipherable look, then turned away and pulled out his Sig, beginning to clean the weapon. An hour later, a knock on the door announced John's ride. The Doctor and the Politician looked at each other. Mycroft followed John to the heavy oak front doors. Before John stepped out, Mycroft followed his impulse and held his hand out, glad when the other man took it.

"Good luck, John." _Please be careful._

John's lips quirked up in a small smile. "Just keep him safe. All of them." _Promise me this._

Mycroft nodded sharply, mouth tightening imperceptibly, but for John, it was enough. Inclining his head to the other man, he walked to the car and got in without looking back, his manner already reverting to the soldier he kept leashed within. The non-descript, but obviously armored black car pulled away from the drive, vanishing from sight in the descending darkness, carrying with it Mycroft's best hope for peace for his country and his brother. Heaving a sigh, he returned to his silent vigil by the fire, his thoughts on the only two men who mattered now.

A week later, Doctor John Watson took a leave of absence from his clinic and left for Dublin to attend a medical conference. And if Mrs. Hudson won a Christmas trip to the Cayman Islands for two months, no one was any the wiser about it coinciding with the large scale renovations work that went on night and day at 221B Baker Street. People commented on how the landlady had definitely lost her marbles to allow a horde of strangers to stay over at the property for the duration of their work. But all such utterances soon lost the fervor of intrigue and soon no-one even noticed if the men seemed not to do more than the barest of jobs around the house.

All except for the watchers. Spread out throughout the city, the watchers kept a careful, unhurried eye on everything, everywhere, all the time. And 221B was the eye of the storm.

* * *

**Mycroft POV**

* * *

He would never know when he grew to like the world for its secrets more than the humans to whom those secrets belonged. But with both parents unable to keep up with his intelligence, he'd been left to fend more or less for himself. His only advantage was in knowing when to use the secrets he gathered to give himself the upper hand. And then came Sherlock. Such a precocious child. Seven years the elder son, he was often made responsible for his much younger brother; a task he looked forward to with secret pleasure. Sherlock was the only person he loved, the feeling locked away behind an iron control impenetrable enough to warrant his moniker 'Iceman'. But there wasn't much he wouldn't do for his brother. Never would be.

Which was why he found himself on a cold December morning standing at Sherlock's faux grave with his ever-present umbrella, the chill air wrapping around his slim shoulders, moulding over his form, freezing his breath. Anthea waited patiently in the car idling outside the cemetery, her fingers flying over the keys of her blackberry while she waited for her boss.

There were a series of steps to complete for their plans to work. Step one had been accomplished with John leaving for his two-week medical conference. Of course, there actually was one to authenticate the doctor's abrupt departure. But the timing had just fortunately been right or Mycroft was sure that John would have left anyway. But that was a mere detail. It was the next step in the sequence he was worried about as it would put the doctor more directly in harm's way than he'd ever been in the past year. Though he'd never been one for Christmas gifts, he didn't want to be the one to give the news to his brother if Doctor Watson was lost on this mission.

To have contemplated it was suicide. To act on it, was a Hiroshima scale disaster in the making.

And yet, oddly enough, there was simply no one else who could be entrusted with this duty. No one else was close enough or knew all the players on the board. No one else could possibly be made familiar with the relevant data in so short a span of time. And no one else could be more invested in the venture than the one who had been there since the beginning.

It wasn't often that Mycroft was ever required to give anyone a second thought once he had deduced the individual. Almost no-one that he knew of had the keenness of mind required to keep up with him or his brother and certainly, none approached their intelligence.

Except for Moriarty. And that was a chapter best kept shut.

But now, faced with the option of watching over and perhaps guiding the plan outlined by the doctor while he left undercover to play house against a known and widespread terrorist organization, Mycroft was forced to re-evaluate the man for the third time.

Doctor Watson was a good man and it was the highest compliment Mycroft could give him since the man shied away from well-deserved accolades he thought he wasn't entitled to. Having badly miscalculated a soldier's honour the first time he'd had John picked up, Mycroft had simply deemed it an aberration of a character singularly specific to the man's life as a doctor and left it at that. Only to be caught off-guard with the revelations about John's more notorious past.

Except, it seemed, that was only the tip of the iceberg called John Watson.

Like Sherlock had thought 'Harry' to be John's sister on that first day at St. Bart's, so had Mycroft not suspected the unexpected depths of the quiet doctor's true nature. The man kept surprising both the Holmes brothers with almost everything that he did. He didn't fit into any mold that either brother could think of. John Watson was a fluid quantity, an unquantifiable variable. One that had proved useful, undoubtedly, but Mycroft hadn't taken it seriously.

That lasted until John Watson pulled the rug out from under his feet a third time when he'd been introduced to John Watson's twin brother down to the frown lines in the weathered face under the military cut sandy hair and twinkling blue eyes.

And just when he was settling in with the knowledge of finally knowing everything about him too. The metaphorical cloud growing above Mycroft's puzzled head rumbled gloomily.

Mycroft roused himself when he saw a figure emerge from the cold mists around him. A man of average height, a hidden face, ragged shirt-sleeves, patched coat, and sodden, torn boots approached him with a shuffling gait, squelching noisily. "Go' a penny gov'?" the vagrant asked, extending one shaking hand.

Mycroft stared at the sorry creature with disdain for a few seconds, a harsh rebuke on the tip of his tongue, before he noticed the clean fingernails on that otherwise grimy, shaking hand, manicured and polished. Looking up sharply, he saw the slight smirk on the man's face and withdrew a pound coin to put in the outstretched limb. Having done so, the man saluted clumsily and made to walk past him, brushing close for a split second before going on his shuffling way.

Unable to understand why an obviously disguised informer would beg a pound in return for absolutely nothing, Mycroft laid a lily on the grave and walked away. Appearances had to be kept up after all. Sliding into the car, his phone chimed with an incoming text and he made to pull out his phone. Only then did he discover the slightly crumpled note resting there. Obvious conclusion: the vagrant informer.

Giving his attention to the text first, Mycroft was reassured to see that it was from Doctor Watson. John simply told him that all proceedings were well underway and that results could be expected on schedule. Until then he would be out of touch and all communique would have to be through Ben or Ash as required. Both of them would be at their posts until further orders, though John did request Mycroft's aid with information for Ben's team if the capable man ever asked for it. Mycroft replied to all of this with the short, "Of course. Fair winds. MH."

Turning his attention to the note, he withdrew it from its envelope and opening it, he read the troubling news within with his usual equanimity. Ash had written to warn him that Sherlock Holmes was thinking of returning to London. But all Mycroft could see were pools of blood on the pavement and dark flames rising from open burning windows.

Mycroft made his decision. By whatever means possible, Sherlock Holmes could not yet be allowed to return to London. He sent a text to John, Ash and Ben, and received positive replies in turn. With one short order, the game had begun.

* * *

**Sherlock's POV**

* * *

Jumping around the world was beginning to lose its charm. He was only ever there to follow the lines of the web through to the next pillar or cog in the consulting criminal's vast empire and bring it crashing down. So many times he had almost failed only to hear that it had been destroyed. So many times he had brought them down himself. It gave him such a high to have the power to bring down so many simple, common, worthless minds, caught in the webs of greed and avarice and fear. It was better than cocaine this power over life and death. With each death, he freed them. With each drop of blood freed, he showed them how to escape from all the horrors of being bound in slavery to the consulting criminal. He opened the gates of Hell to them and prayed that the gates of Heaven would still be open to him when he got back home.

Home. All the new cities, the new sights and sounds, new fields to play in, all of it paled before his memories of London. He loved London, with its smoky, acrid air; the vast expanse of its parks, so perfect for a morning murder; the innumerable Victorian houses with their hidden doors and cellars; the new towering buildings that attracted nimble cat burglars; the dark alleys and doorways from which strangers watched and waited, hungry and sad and angry, waiting to put a knife between your ribs for the paper in your wallet and let the hot blood flow.

He could taste the metallic tang now, burning his mouth, overwhelming his sense of smell. He could hear his own heartbeat, the pulse strong and sure even as he slit another throat, letting the blood burst from the jugular, painting the wall in an arcing spray. And then he dumped the cooling body in the rubbish heap. It wouldn't be missed. Just another body in a city of bodies waiting to die. He cleaned his knife methodically and walked away, his dark shadow padding silently after him.

Ash watched and observed, unobtrusive and discreet. He never gestured, he never spoke, he never frowned, he never censured, but he was always there. A solid wall of … of _something_ … that he could always depend on being there when he looked up. A center of gravity between the storm in his heart and the thunder in the sky. He was there when _He_ couldn't be and for that alone, he was thankful for Ash No-last-name.

Moriarty's web was almost gone now. He'd done most of it and some shadowy organization had done the rest, helping him when he least expected it, cutting down the strings of the web bit by bit until it was demolished. There were a few more steps to play, but he was so tired now. He missed his city, he missed home. An adage flashed across his jaded mind: 'Home is where the heart is.'

Maybe a year ago, that maxim may have still been true. But now, he wasn't sure if it carried any weight. His heart was with the only man who had accepted him and never used him, and his home was of a necessity wherever he would be. Such blatant sentiment. Textbook, Mycroft would say. And yet, that very sentiment had driven him to this life, dealing death to those who would threaten the only person – the only _heart_ – he called home.

He would have to tie up the loose ends quickly now. Not a second more was to be wasted in finishing his macabre task. He had to return now, back to the only home he would ever have, to the only heart that would always welcome him home. It was past time already and his sins were yet to be forgiven. Maybe then the infernal chatter in his head would finally shut up and leave him be.

Sherlock Holmes swallowed a sleeping pill and lay down to sleep with the faithful, silent, capable Ash keeping watch over his transport.

* * *

**Ben's POV**

* * *

It had been an eventful year, what with all the running around and assassinations and capturing chicken heads all over the world. It was a good thing they had their commander to outline plans for them, or this whole operation could have gone up in smoke ages ago in Spain.

Commander John Watson was a leader to be honored and feared, which was something both the men under his command and his POWs agreed on. The man had a soft voice, rarely raised in anger, and yet, it was the most intimidating sound on the battlefield. Working through assignments on three continents had given him the moniker 'TC' and the name had become a legend in the field.

Needless to say, the old gang was proud to be back working under TC. Even if it was because the boss had to keep his lover's head above water. There had been several snickers over that piece of news around the campfires, especially when they knew that Doc had been a favourite with the ladies on their tours. Doc had shot down those jokes quicker than he drew and fired his weapons, which alone had caused a lot of wolf whistles in camp. But just when they thought all major threats had been neutralized, recent developments had turned this task into a matter of national security. Again.

John and that Holmes suit had teamed up and put together a plan; a plan that involved nobody knowing where he was at any point in time. And so TC had called in one of his special groups, a group of professionals whose existence was more classified than the deepest cover assignments known to the MoD. Their group, Command 1, being Doc's own first group was the only one aware of this group's existence, having used them at times and Ben knew that times were dire indeed if the Doc had to pull these people out of the woodwork.

Beholden to and personally trained by Commander John Watson himself, the Legion was TC's guard, loyal to the end. He'd set them to watch over London like the greatest treasure in the world; the Legion was to Commander Watson what the Homeless Network was to Sherlock Holmes. They were his eyes and ears in the dark or light, above ground and in the underground, within departments and department stores, the Legion was simply everywhere. And Mycroft had no idea they existed.

His phone trilled and he took the call. "How's it going Big Ben?"

"Same as usual, Cap. We're waiting for your boy's next move here. The Charlies are already at rendezvous at the Capital. And I just heard word from your Legionnaires; they've got London locked down tight."

"That's good news Ben, all of it. Anything you need?"

"Not a thing we can't get on our own, Doc. You taught us well," the big man quipped.

"Thanks, Ben. Give them my best, won't you? Don't know when I'll see you again."

"We'll come running soon as you call, Doc," replied Ben somberly, a bit alarmed at the sudden turn this conversation was taking.

"May not be soon enough," whispered John. Then, "Good luck boys, you know what to do and I could not have asked for a better team for a family. I …"

Ben cut him off. "This isn't your 'goodbye note' John, so don't get all sentimental on us poor bastards. Give us a shout and we'll be there, standing where we should be, right by your side. I know you, John. I've known you for years. And I know you've got dozens of contingencies planned right now. Let me refresh your memory from Albania. 'All you need is one word'. Got it?"

He was relieved to hear a smile in that soft voice. "I hear you, Ben. Call me to wait for your call. See you in a bit. Happy Hunting!"

Ben laughed and wished his friend the same just as he cancelled the call. The messages had been sent and received. It was now up to him - to them – to execute them up to Doc's standards. Thank God for years of experience with the man. Because what all of them were going to do now, was nothing short of insane.


	9. Searching for Completion

The further this story goes, the more challenging it is to write. But here's the next chapter up and I hope you like it!

Read and Review!

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Not that it was difficult to work through the sporadic bursts of giggles that seemed to have permanently invaded his rooms since the day they arrived, but it certainly was distracting. And there was only so long that he could treat it a training exercise. Which he didn't really need since Sherlock had all but ensured he never forgot how to tune out sounds he didn't need or want to hear. After all, one couldn't keep rushing down from one's room to check on a mad scientist after a floor-shaking explosion forever. You had to learn to tune out Radio Sherlock sometimes to prevent early myocardial infarction. Eventually.

But that didn't mean he was completely immune to disturbing noises. Especially when it was his own high strung team doing it. It demanded an investigation. Because he could not for the life of him guess at why they were so damn _giggly_ in the middle of a mission as important as this. 'Life and Death' _ought_ to count for something.

Getting up from the desk he was working at, John made his way out the door of his room and down the hall to one of the rooms his team was situated in. The moment he opened the door intending to shout them to silence, he was assaulted with a blast of sound.

_Oh! He's a jolly good fel-low!_

_Oh he's a jolly good fe-ellow!_

_Oh he's a jolly good fe-el-lowww!_

_And so say all of us!_

_Happy Birthda-ay!_

Involuntarily, a smile swept across John's face, immediately smoothing away lines of tension and lack of sleep, as he gazed in wondrous shock at the streamers and _were those balloons_ (?) and actually edible snacks carefully arranged on the small round table that was clearly dominated by the rather large cake sitting right in the center. A laugh trembled on his lips as he looked around at the men and women gathered in the small room, squeezed fit to overflowing, all standing there with the right fist over their hearts, love and respect shining in their eyes. Siren stepped forward to meet him, holding a package in her hands.

"We know you're not one for speeches, but we didn't want you to miss your birthday and we wanted to give you something to remember this year by. So…" she presented the package to John, stepping back smartly when he'd taken hold of it.

Opening the wrapped paper, John found a photo album. A bit surprised, he opened it to the first leaf and nearly dropped the album in shock. Eyes wide in disbelief, he flipped through the entire thing, unable to believe what he was looking at.

On each leaf was a photograph of Sherlock during the past year, each as candid a shot as they could get. In some John could see his eyes, blazing with determination, his body taut as a bowstring, hands held ready at his side, his stance that of a man preparing to meet his end over and over again, ready to jump off the edge again. In others he was a man breaking from the inside where his demons could always haunt him, his brilliant eyes shadowed in pain or sickness, or even frustration.

And in yet others, he saw a side of the man he had never thought he would see again. Sherlock Holmes, standing in the blood of his enemy, a prostate body at his feet, his gun hand hanging limply by his side, his body and clothes gory and blood-splattered, a mad grin on his face, and madness shining in his eyes. There were many photos showing this side of him, each with its timestamp and place of origin. Unbidden Sally Donovan's words the night of the first case arose in his mind and he ruthlessly beat them back down. Sherlock Holmes was not a psychopath; he refused to entertain the idea.

But there was no denying the niggling doubt and unease he'd felt right alongside the intrigue and admiration, on that first day at St. Bart's with Sherlock deducing him within seconds of their having laid eyes on each other. He'd spent the rest of the day and a half calling contacts and putting together strategies, exit routes and a light detail on the man, a reflex action from his days of action under the sun. Looking at the flat that evening had been an eye-opener of sorts and _damn_ it all, but John was hooked. It helped that the man looked like sex on legs in that long coat of his.

In all honesty, Mycroft's first abduction had been a bit of a joke since his own little army had surrounded the warehouse a few minutes after he'd met the elder Holmes brother. But the experience had been rather fun, with the promise of it getting better and it had tickled John's fancy to see how it would play out. Besides, he found Sherlock an engaging mystery and wanted to know more and the added threat from the brother only made him more protective of his soon-to-be-flatmate. And so, unknown to either brother, Sherlock Holmes had been under observation ever since he was set on the case of the serial killer cabbie.

He could only assume Mycroft had no idea since he'd never brought it up. But he'd always been careful to remain under the radar. Until necessity, circumstance and irritation at both the Holmes brothers had called for those skills again. Stupid Sherlock.

"Thank you, everyone," John spoke to the room at large, having finally realised that they would be waiting for some response from him. "The surprise is most welcome and your gift is, I think, the most precious thing you could have given me this year. Try not to add cuts and bruises to it by the end of this mission," he ended wryly, before moving to the table and cutting the cake amidst laughter and punch and a truly cacophonic rendition of Happy Birthday. But he wouldn't have had it any other way.

The week-long medical conference passed without a hitch. Doctor John Watson attended it during the day, slept for a few hours and was up working late into the night. He read and reread his notes. He watched recordings of his interrogations of the three snipers. He found a quiet little copse to practice his aim in. He cooked for his entire team. He practiced day and night to get his part down right because this was quite possibly the most important part he'd ever play in his entire life. There could be no room for error.

Though quite ironically, this was exactly what he used to do for a living in the SRR all those years ago. Play a part. The thought strengthened his resolve and he plunged into the task with renewed effort. This was what he was trained to be. A chameleon. He just had to fit in his skin.

It didn't take long for him to be ready. A single text sent to both Mycroft and Lestrade ensured that his allies were forewarned and prepared. And then, at the end of the week, two things happened.

First, Doctor John Watson returned to London at the conclusion of the conference, to take up his regular routine at 221B Baker Street, settling in to live alone in that large flat. He ignored the presence of the men working there, staying out of their way as much as possible. He still met Lestrade for drinks at the pub, he was still abducted at odd moments by Mycroft, but he became quieter and more reserved. But he remained to all who knew him, the same John Watson they'd come to know over the past months.

Second, and more importantly, having recovered from a prolonged illness, big game hunter and assassin for hire, Sebastian Moran returned to his position on the roof across from the Baker Street building, once more keeping the doctor within the cross-hairs, his trigger finger itching to put a hole in the side of his target's head.

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**~ Scene Break ~**

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The city was colorful, but noisy, more so than London, in an uncontrolled way with no organization. The people were helpful, gratingly so, but they were more easily led. At least the ones he met. Sheep, all of them. Dull. There was something to be said for Anderson's bull-headed obstinacy after all. At least he was comparatively entertaining.

These were the last few cases he needed to wrap up, the remaining strands of Moriarty's web that with their fall would destroy his empire for good. Maybe then, he would be able to lay his ghosts to rest once and for all. There was always the chance of course that someone, somewhere would take up his mantle and build up another global crime syndicate, but they could come to that later. For the moment his priority was to get back home as soon as possible. And the way home lay across Syria and Strasbourg. He began making preparations to leave New Delhi as soon as possible, knowing that Ash would complete them in his quiet, efficient way.

He was looking forward to his imminent return to familiar ground, back to shocking people with the proof of his brilliance staring them blatantly in the face. There would be a backlash from his return – of course, there would be – but he wasn't concerned about that. People did little else but talk, but he'd always been able to tune them out. Until John. Mycroft could deal with the paperwork of his miraculous return to the land of the living. All he was concerned about was going home to his doctor.

A soft, discreet trill announced a call coming through for Ash who was standing on the parapet outside. It was always fascinating to watch the young man interact with people calling him. Though he couldn't reply, Ash would text them back, though his replies remained surprisingly short. Code perhaps. But one that he could not decipher since Ash never left his phone lying around. The detective turned back to his meager breakfast, but a flicker of movement on the periphery of his vision caught his attention. He looked up to see Ash pacing the small space, a frown on his lips, turning smartly at each corner, unmindful of the yawning chasm beside him, threatening to pull him down.

A gasp broke from his mouth as he was suddenly swamped with memories of himself standing on the roof at Bart's waiting to jump, that open space sucking at his heart, pulling it down towards John, pulling it painfully out of his body, twisting and churning until it bled and burned just like Moriarty had promised. He pushed himself away from the table, the straight wooden chair falling over in his haste to reach Ash, his only goal to save that young man like he wished someone could have saved him.

Ash looked up at Sherlock charging at him like a man crazed with fear, and automatically stepped down to meet him on even grounds. 'Not a second too late,' he thought as the detective skid to a stop before him, eyes glazed and hands brushing firmly about his body searching for something Ash couldn't see. Then he stepped back and understanding flooded Ash when he felt slim fingers on his wrist taking his pulse. And at that moment his phone felt very heavy in his pocket.

Taking hold of Sherlock's thin shoulders he held the man firmly and kept his eyes fixed on him. The direct gaze and warm hold grounded the detective, who squirmed a bit when he realised what he'd done, his eyes darting from the ground to the door and everywhere but Ash himself. Not for the first time did Ash wish he could simply talk to the mad genius and shake some sense into him. Sherlock Holmes a sociopath? Blarney!

Then it hit him and he could have hit himself for not thinking of it sooner. Tightening his hold on the detective for a moment, he began tapping his fingers on the man's skin where Sherlock was still holding his wrist. He could see the exact moment Sherlock realized what Ash was doing; tapping out ' _calm down_ ' against his wrist in Morse code. Once Ash had the detective's attention and those piercing eyes focused on his own, he tapped out another sequence, making sure not to break that gaze.

_John is fine._

For a long minute Sherlock stared into the younger man's eyes, his body unconsciously swaying closer. A second later Ash felt those long fingers tapping out a _Thank you_ against his wrist and exhaled in relief. When the detective finally pulled away, he didn't stop him. He may have avoided the ax-blow for a while, but he would have to tell his charge sometime. In the meantime, he had to make preparations for leaving New Delhi. The case was over, and most of the small fry left were petty thieves and prostitutes who would be taken care of by the local police who in turn had been tipped off already. It was time to get back on the road.

Sherlock watched as Ash methodically stripped their rented apartment to its bare walls, simultaneously packing their bags in readiness for an early departure that night. He was sure his companion was ex-military, but could not fathom why Mycroft would have appointed this one man to aid him in his pursuit. Maybe he thought the man would be an acceptable replacement for his John. Sherlock twitched. That was absurd. There was no-one who could possibly replace his conductor of light, no matter how efficient they might be. He shook his head, dismissing his thoughts. It was of no consequence anyway; the man was competent and useful and that was enough.

Though none of that explained why Ash had sought to reassure him of John's safety. He hadn't spoken to Mycroft for a few days or received a report on his friends' well-being. Had something happened? And if so, why would Ash be told and not him? For that matter, why would Mycroft not tell him? Oh. Stupid. This was Mycroft 'keeping him safe'. So be it. As long as he kept the others safe he didn't mind. He did miss hearing about John though.

That evening a taxi arrived to take them to the New Delhi airport where they were to take the flight to Damascus, Syria via Mumbai. The two hour hop-over was followed by the longer overseas flight and mere hours later, they were in the air and on their way out of the country. Ash gave Sherlock the window seat so the genius wouldn't be disturbed by the passing stewardesses. Fortunately for them both, the detective decided to catch up on some sleep to be fresh and ready for facing down a man known only as 'The Hidden Sword'. For all that his name implied, the man himself was reportedly nothing to look at; his worth – if it could be called that – was only in his skill with blades.

Having learned from Sherlock the identity of their next target, Ash had passed it on to Ben and Mycroft. Over the past several months all members had long since learned that power plays were futile and it was quite a bit better to simply share the required information and get this 'task' done with faster. Well, to be fair, there had been a lot of shouting down from John, but overall, everybody had come to their senses on their own. Small mercies indeed.

Sherlock never asked where Ash got his information from and had only looked at him oddly once right at the beginning. The files were a mixed bag of efforts from Mycroft and Ben as well as their teams, so the detective never had any single identifier to stick to. None of them had any doubt that he would probably bring it up later though. But for now he quietly used the intel as it was provided, occasionally asking for clarifications which Ash referenced for him.

Ash, having texted Ben regarding their new destination and target, was sure that all preparations would have been done for their arrival, as per his satisfaction. But Sherlock, awake and alert to his new surroundings, deducing more from a single glance than the team would learn in a day, was already running on auto-pilot, trusting his shadow to keep him safe while he wandered around cataloging information into his hard drive. A day and half later – having covered more than half the city on foot and without stopping for water much less food – the detective had gained all the information he needed to bring down the Silent Sword.

That night, after being quite early force-fed slices of apple for dinner, glaring at Ash all the while which Ash completely ignored, Sherlock settled into the mandatory couch to think.

"You will have to tell me what you know eventually."

Ash, who was doing the dishes in the small kitchen jerked around towards the reclining detective. Sherlock was lying there in his favorite contemplative pose complete with both hands folded under his chin, staring up at the unhelpfully blank ceiling. Taking up a wooden spoon, Ash tapped out a short query on the counter-top, "Meaning?"

As though he'd expected both the medium of the reply and the question itself, the detective merely continued staring at the ceiling. Discomfited but not surprised by Sherlock's proclivity to silence even during a conversation, Ash turned back around and carried on with the washing. A half hour later, when Sherlock still hadn't moved from the couch, he went to make up the double bed. Two days of running around the city while watching out for Sherlock was very draining.

"What was the call about today?"

Ash sighed. He was just on the point of sliding under the covers, hoping to have this conversation when he was more awake than asleep, but there was Sherlock standing in the doorway, wide awake as ever, looking expectantly at him.

He picked up a pen from the side table and tapped out a response on the wood top, the sound sharp in the silence of the night.

_Instructions._

"From?"

_Not supposed to tell you._

"Even if it helps me finish this?"

_It won't._

"So … sensitive information but not pertinent to this case, then?"

_Of a sort yes._

"Or not pertinent to this whole end game?"

_… Maybe._

"I can assume the instructions were from your boss, but not from Mycroft."

_Yes._

"But you're ex-Army, so you might be retired from Intelligence."

Ash looked amused, but tapped out, _Yes._

"So you could still be taking orders from Mycroft."

_No._

Sherlock glared at him obviously unhappy at not having any of his questions answered. But he wasn't going to give this up. There was something … something important staring him right in the face.

A knock on the door brought them both back to the present with a jerk. Sherlock's eyes promised a return to this topic as Ash moved to answer the door. His gaze flicked to the small clock on the table and realized the caller would be the contact he had made the day before. "Tea!" he called out, knowing that Ash would understand. Soon enough the three of them were seated around the small dining table, sipping hot tea, waiting for the newcomer to speak.

"Well?" asked Sherlock bluntly.

The small man flinched, sloshing tea over the sides of his mug. "The Silent Sword, the Devil take him, will be here in two days' time. He and his wife, the lovely Zarina, will be at their home three blocks south of this place. But if you go to kill the Silent Sword, you must do the same to his wife as well. She is more ruthless than he and she killed my wife and sister brutally. You must kill them both!"

Sherlock simply nodded, eyes fixed on the informant, looking for any signs that the man could be lying. Fortunately for him, he wasn't and this wasn't just a plea for revenge. The detective had heard much the same account from others in the street and had in fact planned on killing the couple together. "Where are they coming back from?"

"Her family home."

Dull. "Tell me about their house."

"They have heavy security both inside and outside. 20 guards outside with dogs and semi-automatics and 10 guards inside with handguns and extra ammunition. And the 5 snipers on the roof."

Sherlock nodded again. He had memorized the dossier earlier, but it was always better to have the information corroborated. Not that he doubted Ash or his invisible friends, he thought with a slight frown, but he didn't want to take any chances this close to home.

"Weaknesses?"

"There are new tunnels being dug under the house as we speak. Some of them were dug as a part of the swimming pool and drainage system when the house was being built, so all we have to do is to join them up and extend them. The entrance is very near to this flat. They should be ready by the time they return. There is also a connecting door from their garden to the house next to theirs'. It is usually locked and covered with ivy, but it can be scaled. And then there is are the two balconeys of their private rooms which do not have either guards or snipers. They like to do … private things there so …"

His audience watched in amusement as the man blushed and trailed off, focusing on his cooling tea. The detective waited till they had all finished their beverage, and then escorted the man to the door, thanking him and promising to be in touch in two days.

Ash turned from the washing up when Sherlock spoke. "I know you and your people have been helping me to weed out Moriarty's network over the past months. But this time, I want your friends to do this themselves. Both of them. In the plane or at the airport, just as long as they don't get back to this city. Can you do that?"

Ash saw the pleading in Sherlock's eyes and asked, _Why?_

"Because I'm too close to home now to go mad. I can't face John like that. John can't see me like that. John wouldn't want that." He strode forward and put his hands on Ash's shoulders, squeezing tightly. "Please! Do this because I'm asking you to. Show me the bodies afterward, but do this for me. For John."

Ash grabbed hold of one bare forearm and tapped out, _Of course. We'll do this. Don't worry._

Sherlock's shoulders slumped with relief and then Ash helped him to bed, pulling up the covers around his bony shoulders and patting down the pillow. Since for him, this case was all but over, he deserved every bit of rest he could get. For Ash, meanwhile, the day was just getting started. He pulled out his phone and started texting.

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**~ Scene Break ~**

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It was tedious having to wait in the shadows for hours on end, not knowing when anything would happen. The pieces of the game were all in place and according to reports, the infil had gone exactly according to plan. They were now waiting for the last piece of the puzzle to fall back in place. It was dangerous in the extreme to take this step, but it would speed up this last round and help them tie up the last loose end of this game.

London was where it all started, and London was where it would all end. The old city was going to have to wake up again.


	10. Smoking the Hive

**Chapter 10 – Smoking the Hive**

Really sorry I haven't updated in a long while. Had a few things going on and there just wasn't time to write out something I myself would have liked. So it has taken quite a while to thrash this chapter out, and I must say, the closer this gets to some sort of conclusion, the harder it's been to get things just right. But I hope this chapter will be a good return to this story.

Well, I think it's time to start wrapping things up now, don't you? Things are coming to a head for all our characters and maybe I've kept John and Sherlock apart for too long. That's a Bit Not Good. From all the kudos this story has received, I am assured that you have liked the story so far and you approve of how I've developed the characters. Thank you for that. It was a big help to know that so far my work has paid off and that you all enjoyed this story.

New Chapter Alert! Read and Review!

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Sherlock Holmes turned into such a feline when he was sated and comfortable, observed Ash, an amused smirk curving his lips. The detective was lying in his favourite pose, flat out on the couch, with a pillow under his head and another under his feet, pajama-clad and tousle-haired, indolence in every line of his being as he lounged on that piece of furniture in a rare spell of inactivity. To be fair, the last case had finally been satisfactorily brought down in Strasbourg just the day before and this called for some laziness on the part of the usually hyperactive detective.

As long as he didn't start shouting _'Bored!'_ again at the top of his voice. Bless his lungs. God knew how John tolerated him in those moods, but right now, he was thankful the energetic detective was silent. Cleaning out their supply of guns, Ash mused on the latest case.

Once again, single-handedly, Sherlock Holmes had saved the day, preventing an explosion in a hotel that would otherwise have taken out the representatives of some of the most powerful weapons manufacturers in the world. Mycroft Holmes had been extremely worried about the plot when it was first revealed and was now … acceptably pleased with the more than favourable result. After all, the fact that the younger brother of the British Government had saved their lives put those men indirectly in debt to said British Government. Yes, quite an acceptable situation indeed.

Not that Sherlock cared about such things. His main focus had always been the group that had been commissioned to make and place the bomb, the rest was just window dressing. Welcome, perhaps, but not altogether important in the larger frame of things. He'd done it all for John's safety, and for Sherlock, as Ash well knew, there could be nothing more important.

However, this state of affairs brought with it its own spate of problems. Sherlock wanted to return to London and Mycroft was dead set against it. It was not yet safe for the consulting detective to return home and everyone but the detective knew it. For the better part of the year now, they had made sure to keep him solely focused on the various cases that would spell the end of Moriarty's vast global crime network. Nobody wanted him to return just as the fires were being stoked again to smoke out one last remaining rat. The ship was all but sunk, and the balance was delicate.

Sherlock's arrival on the London scene would either be the last straw that tilted the prow or the one that gave it one last lifeline.

It seemed like some of the main players would have to meet again to decide the games of one Sherlock Holmes.

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**~ Scene Break ~**

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He woke to the sound of someone singing his name. Just one little word repeated over and over and _over_ again coming closer with every step that echoed off the cold tiled floors of the empty corridors in this abandoned set of flats. He had hoped for a bit more sleep before dealing with this. He had hoped for a bit more _time_. Hell, he had hoped to be able to finish his job without it coming to this. He had hoped against hope that this Pandora's Box would hold Hope until the end. But now it seemed that Hope's sister Despair had come home.

It was not bad timing, no. It was great timing. It may even be perfect timing depending on how their other plans went. They had talked about this, discussed this scenario and every other effing possible one for days before rounding out with this one. Extensively. Because it was just so _him_. This extravagant, this overconfident, this insane. It could only be him.

Setting his shoulders, he took a deep breath and shook off the remnants of sleep. It would never do to meet this man with a fuzzy brain. He would need to be alert and ready for anything all the time now and hopefully finish this with what needed to be done. He gave himself a little shake and reached for his gun. So far everything had gone as close to plan as it could considering all that had happened in the past year. And now that all the loose ends were coming together, he couldn't fail this mission and all the people depending on him. On _this_. Especially…

A single knock broke through his reverie and the door opened to reveal his guest, unwelcome, but not unexpected.

"Honeeeeeeeyy! I'm hooo~oooome!

He looked up from the gun he'd been cleaning on automatic and set aside the oiled rag in his hand. He nodded at his visitor. "James."

The short, slim man with the abnormally large ego pouted, "Now now Sebby, is that any way to greet your employer back from the dead? After all I've done for you?"

Well, the theatricality hadn't changed. "How did you do it?" he asked instead, rising to set his gun on the table.

The shorter man shrugged his Westwood coated shoulders. "Meh. It was nothing. Paid actor, scripted dialogue. Told him it was his screen test for a movie. He lapped it up. Boring." The man grinned. "What have you been up to, Sebby? Caught any fish?"

"I'm sure you know all about that, James. You've been around for a few months now."

James laughed, eyes wide and pleased, and he clapped his hands delightedly. "Oh, you clever clever darling! Of course, I've been around. Had to make sure our contract was still active, after all," he winked at the blond, walking around him towards the mini bar in the corner of the room. He poured himself a glass of whisky and turned to face the sniper again.

"I have noticed something though."

"And what is that?" Keep it careful, keep it casual, keep it calm.

"Andrew and Aaron are missing."

"Dead. Police crossfire. Suspected for breaking and entering and armed robbery."

"I found the footage."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"Where did the replacements come from?"

The frown cleared. "Simon and Tom. Old army dogs. Associates of mine."

James sipped at his drink and just looked at him.

"I promised them a cut of my share. They're broke but they're good."

"For your sake and theirs', I hope so."

They looked at each other. James smiled at the blond sniper, all teeth and sharp eyes. Then he drained his drink and sauntered away into the bedroom, dropping the glass on the rugged floor on the way. A few minutes later, the sound of the shower running could be heard. Sebastian heaved a sigh of relief. He'd forgotten how scarily intense the man could be. This job would be the death of him. Taking out his phone, he sent off a bulk text.

_Diva on stage._

He deleted the text from the phone and turned it on silent before hiding it in one of his jacket pockets. Picking up another phone from the table, he called Simon and Tom for updates. Best to have new information on hand even if nothing was going on. The intervening years had been quite slow. Everything seemed to have calmed down after the supposedly fake genius detective swan-dived to his death on the pavement. But then, if he had died – and so far there was no evidence to the contrary – why would their three marks still be in the cross-hairs? There seemed to be no more reason to be keeping them captive for the detective's good behavior, but James had not yet reversed his order. Which meant … what, exactly?

Sebastian shook his head. There had never been a day he'd actually been able to understand the way James' mind worked. Not that he wanted to. It was safer by far to just be told when to point and who to shoot. He was marginally less deep in this shit that way. He had no illusions about his status if he was ever caught out or if James chose to end their convenient association. People didn't look very kindly on pedophiles in the army, and even less in the normal world, but it had only been the one time. Apparently, it had been one time too many. His life ruined because he'd been too weak to resist his own carnal desires.

"You take what you want, when you want, Sebby. It makes you powerful, not weak."

"Would you please stop sneaking up on people!"

"Where's the fun in that?" he stepped into the room dressed only in a rather fluffy white bathrobe, his feet bare on the carpet. "Be a dear and bring up my bags for me."

"Foyer?" He got only a nod in return and turned away to make his way downstairs. There wasn't anything incriminating in his suite, so he wasn't too concerned about James snooping around, which he would of course do. He was more curious about the status of his current contract. Considering that his employer seemed to be in a better mood today, it would probably be the best time to ask him. Never know when that volatile man became unstable again. James' 'death' had meant relative peace for Sebastian as well. He wanted to maintain what semblance of it remained for as long as possible. James got dreadfully bored with peace and that was never good for the people around him.

On that note, Sherlock Holmes probably never knew how many innocent lives he saved in all those years by attracting and keeping James' attention for so long. The man had been beside himself with suffused excitement when he'd rediscovered the sociopathic consulting detective. Sherlock had intrigued him as a boy, but when he dropped off the social radar after dropping out of college, even James had been unable to locate him. A Sherlock who didn't want to be found wasn't found. And that made James' blood sing.

It was much later, while he was still consolidating his webs of power in the States that he heard of the new boy in the police force who was helping the Met solve a higher than average number of cases in remarkable time. There wasn't even much digging required. The papers laid it all out. Sherlock Holmes was the new crime-solver in town. The darling of New Scotland Yard. He even had a costume to match, complete with cape and built and looks. James had gone gaga over that angular face. Seb just couldn't see it. He'd been told to bring back pictures of Sherlock Holmes and as a result, James' room was papered with newspaper cuttings and several printed photographs courtesy Seb's phone camera.

Clearly, as that Adler woman had once said, brainy was the new sexy, for these intellectual types. And apparently, Sherlock Holmes could make James Moriarty gay for him and little Miss gay Adler not-gay too. Joy.

He still remembered the days spent on surveillance, even when James returned to England, stalking, following, recording; the gigabytes of saved images and recordings stored. Sherlock Holmes immortalized in .jpg and .avi and Mp4. Thankfully the man didn't seem to have any accounts on any social media around. That would have just taken the cake. With every other normal kind of stalking going on, cyberstalking, which James would likely have done himself, would just be the icing on the detective cake. But Seb wasn't sure what was worse; James' delight at realizing that 'his' detective wasn't one of the 'mindless drone' crowd or his disappointment that he wouldn't be able to follow his obsession more … umm … obsessively.

He stopped musing when he returned to his rooms. Best to not be caught musing about your boss' person of interest where he could see. At least when you're not actively dogging his steps on said boss' orders.

"Unpack them in your room Sebby, darling. I'm moving in."

Sebastian sighed. "Of course." He moved around the consulting criminal lounging in the leather-backed chair and went into what had been his room until 5 seconds ago. Unpacking quickly, he removed everything he owned from the room and made his way into the second room in the flat. It wasn't that much different from the other one, but James' high-handedness irked. More so, because he'd become used to the criminal's absence in all this time.

Moving into the living room he asked, "So, what is the plan?"

"Plan?" asked Moriarty vaguely, his nose in a book.

"Yes, well, I assumed the reason you've returned to the land of the living is because there is a plan."

"Maybe I just missed you, my dear Sebastian."

The addressed gritted his teeth, counting slowly down from 10. "Just checking," he finally answered in a strained voice.

James smiled into his book. "Well, if you're so eager to know, I'll indulge your curiosity." He dropped the book over the side of the chair and unfolded himself from it, rising and striding across the room to stand at a window. "In all these months I've been gone, someone has been taking down my network. All of it, every last bit from the largest visible contact, to the smallest link in my web has been torn down and destroyed. Everywhere! And nobody knows who is responsible. I've been around the world at their heels, using whatever resources I still have to catch them and chop them into dog biscuits. But every time I've arrived too late to get any information on the attackers. It's like they knew I was there, but that is impossible!" A fist smashed the window-pane, the glass making no sound as it fell on the carpeted floor.

"Their only MO seems to be total and utter destruction," he continued in a snarl. "MY total and utter destruction. They're leaving more blood and bodies in their wake than I ever managed in all my years at running the largest underground criminal empire this world has ever known. And now that almost every country has been dealt with, the answer becomes clear. First I thought it might have been the Chinese or the Serbians, but those cells were wiped out months ago. Those jobs were quiet. Had I not checked for myself I would never have known. But after this latest 'mistake' in Strasbourg, there can only be one answer, only one person who has the reach and the resources to go after everything I am and everything I built. And we are going to destroy him."

Turning sharply, framed in the light from the window, he grinned at his sniper, a maniacal light in his dark eyes, "We are going to destroy the Iceman."

Walking into the bathroom, he brought the med-kit to the table and began cleaning the cuts on his hand. "And that is why you still have your contract active, Seb. Call in more of your old army comrades. If they need a job and will listen to orders, I have the money to line their pockets. We need a small army. Find me, people, for every skill-set. I'll let you know the plan in a few days. Right now, though," he finished bandaging his hand and settled back down in his chair, "I want to finish this book."

Seb didn't hear another word from him all day, though he made the man dinner and cleared away an empty plate later. He left to keep watch on his target a few hours later, leaving a note to say where he was going. But when he returned, the lights were out in the flat, the note was still in its place on the table, and the consulting criminal was asleep.

Counting the few blessings he still had left, Sebastian pulled out his phone and made a few calls. He knew some of the old army crowd were still around and he knew they would be interested. It was time, apparently, to take the gang out to the pub.

* * *

**~ Scene Break ~**

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This criminal-catching gig was damn fun John thought, as he raced after a murderer fleeing the scene of the crime. He'd asked Lestrade to call him in to crime scenes again, ostensibly because he wanted to do this for Sherlock while he wasn't here, but really it was to keep watch over Lestrade. Everybody else could just put it down to John doing the only thing that would make him feel closer to his lost friend. Well, there was that anyway, but then Sherlock wasn't lost. He was just unexpectedly where he wasn't supposed to be. If it wasn't for that, all those pitying looks and sideways glances would have been incredibly infuriating. As it was, Donovan and the new forensics guy … Harrison, was it? … were at best an irritation.

It was satisfying to know that Sherlock would have flayed them alive.

Two blocks away, he caught up to and flung himself at the man, tackling him to the ground. Hard muscle, high strung and flexible, fought back furiously, throwing the doctor off for a bare second before John was on him again, pushing an elbow into the back of a knee, bringing the man stumbling to the ground. Pushing up off the ground, John hit the man in the side of the neck with the flat of his hand, and when he bowed over wheezing for air, met his face with a kneecap. With a crunch and a howl of pain, the man fell, blood sprouting from a broken nose, mouth open to compensate for airflow. Quickly, John brought the man's hands behind his back, tied them off with one of the zip-ties he kept on his person at all times, and then proceeded to sit on him while he called Lestrade to come and pick him up.

Yes, life was good.

But while he was running around London catching the bad guys, there was so very much more happening in the city teeming with life and death and secrets. A text chimed and John groaned, hanging his head. Mycroft had just confirmed what he'd discovered through the excellent help of his Legionnaires and the Homeless Network.

Sherlock Holmes was in London.

And what's more, he was stalking Lestrade. And Mrs. Hudson. And John himself. The absolute crazy, stupid fool.

Which meant he was either around here somewhere or soon would be, since Greg would be arriving shortly.

Right, then. Game Face on.

Sitting there on the murderer's shoulders, John allowed his face to gradually morph from adrenaline related jubilation to memory haunted jadedness. He'd allowed himself to grow thinner; not eating regularly would do that to a man still lost in the sorrow of immense personal loss. There were always bags under his eyes, purple and heavy, indicating a chronic lack of adequate sleep and rest. His lips were pinched and indications of pressure in the skin around them and the lines on his forehead showed the stress that never left him. This was only confirmed by the bowed shoulders, once strong and straight, now tired of holding up the weight of his lonely world. The hair that was once maintained in that careful precise military cut, had been allowed to grow out as if their wearer no longer cared how he looked and was no longer proud of who he was.

He'd been wearing this particular brown jumper for two days now, and there was a beard on his face. He wasn't taking care of himself. His shoes were smudged with dirt but hadn't been recently cleaned, at least in the last four months. Even the aglets were cut and frayed. He looked almost scruffy. And not like himself. It was a disconcerting reality.

The sound of sirens in the distance rent the air and made the still form of the doctor shift on his human seat. He looked too tired to really bother getting up off the man until Lestrade jogged into view, pulling the doctor up to his feet, where he stumbled unsteadily, reaching for the support of the nearest wall. Sally Donovan caught up to them with the rest of the force, and they bundled the murderer off between them. With a last glance at her boss and the doctor, Sally left them standing together, the DI frowning in concern at the shorter man whose shoulders were being held up by the wall behind him. They stood there a long while, not talking, just being there. It was an unfamiliar tableau and one that he wished he had never seen.

At length, the good doctor pushed himself straight and with Lestrade at his side, made his way out of the alley onto the main street. Getting into the panda car, they drove off together in the direction of NSY.

It was only then that a smirk formed on the blond man's lips, removing years of stress from his face. Turn about was fair play indeed, using knowledge of Sherlock Holmes' process of deduction against him. This situation had possibilities, but he'd have to discuss them with the boss first. The People In Charge would have to have known by now that Sherlock Holmes was back in London. He would be called in to add to the data pool soon enough. Until then he had his orders. And so, after giving Lestrade his statement, it was back to Baker Street for him.

His phone rang in the cab on his way back to 221B. Just a number, no name. He pressed a button and raised the phone to his ear.

"Diva has called in the troops. Meeting is on for tonight. In the space where long lost secrets first unfolded. 8 o' clock. Be ready."

Well, it seemed that the time to make some plans had arrived.


	11. – Return to Me

Hearty thanks to all my readers who've remained with this story this far.

Hope you like this new chapter.

Read and review! Enjoy!

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"And so the prodigal returns."

"Your words smack of irony."

"Intended, brother dear. I hear good reports of your … activities abroad."

"Reports that you no doubt had a hand in creating."

The Holmes brothers watched each other across the elder's antique desk in the study of his private set of rooms at the Diogenes Club. Each man had a snifter of brandy at his left elbow that neither had so much as touched, leaning back away from each other as was their practice. Sherlock had arrived out of the blue, without notice, without warning, turning up not only in London, England when he'd been specifically told to stay away but also within the sacred confines of the Diogenes Club.

It wasn't that he wasn't allowed to be here; his membership, like Mycroft's, was permanently open, after all. No. He just wasn't supposed to be in the country. At. All.

But while Sherlock leaned back with the satisfaction of having pulled one over Mycroft with his stealthy return to his London, Mycroft, with better control over what he allowed anyone to see in his face, eyes, posture, speech or behavior, reclined with a private smirk at the slight self-satisfied quirk of his brother's lips. Mycroft, after all, had already known he would be seeing his brother sooner or later. There were far too many people watching him on Big Brother's behalf for Sherlock to have passed under any radar.

But what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And so Mycroft was prepared to act his part. Careful, controlled surprise and several pre-prepared endeavors to regain control over the situation. He was, however, glad (privately, of course) that someone else held the keys to the puzzle this time. He and his brother knew each other too well.

"Have you done what I asked?"

"Yes, of course."

"Be serious, Mycroft."

"I do respect the good doctor, Sherlock. There no need to snap at me. Had it not been for your vigilante behavior, we would not have this problem now. I did tell you to leave Moriarty to me."

"You would have missed him, Mycroft. He would have led you around, thumbing his nose at you and your people and come back to hurt John again…" He stopped abruptly.

"And so we reach the heart of the matter." Mycroft raised the snifter to his lips, keeping his sharp eyes on his brother. "I did say sentiment is not an advantage, brother, but you refused to listen."

"And you refused to see that with John, sentiment was never the problem. It was every idiot out there trying to take advantage of that sentiment. The problem," Sherlock bit out, leaning his weight on the table between them with one hand, "is quite definitely not the sentiment."

"Then shouldn't you be at Baker Street now, trying to win back your doctor's affections?"

The detective snapped back as if pushed, flinching away from the question. "I cannot. The snipers Moriarty commissioned for John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade are still active. Until they are taken down, I cannot return to Baker Street." _To John._

"Very well then, I believe we are on the same page. Here," Mycroft placed a rather thick file on the table, pushing it towards his brother. "These are the reports of your activities. You may look through them if you wish. I," he rose and straightened his suit jacket, "have a meeting to attend. Your room has been made ready if you wish to retire. All your belongings, as well as the young man who arrived with you, can be found there. Get some rest."

Sherlock kept his eyes on the file, only his eyelids flickering at the reference to Ash, refusing to look at his brother as he came around the table and walked to the door. "Do remember not to wander, Sherlock. I will see you at dinner." Mycroft pulled the doors closed behind him.

A word to Anthea ensured that Sherlock's detail would prevent him from leaving while this meeting lasted. It would not do to be disturbed, and even less for his persistent little brother to disrupt proceedings at this stage.

Making his way to another part of the building, Mycroft entered the private meeting room at the Club. It was important for the meeting to be held here because this room had three separate secret entrances or exits, depending of what use they were put to. Considering the sensitive topics under discussion on this mission, Mycroft had opened this room for their clandestine gatherings. So long as he was within they would be undisturbed; a privilege of the Club. The only wild card was his brother; locked doors held no meaning to him if he wanted to go through them.

Fortunately, that good man Ash would have special tea prepared for Sherlock and himself. They did deserve to rest after all; it had been a long year.

Once inside and seated at the round table of the meeting room, Mycroft pressed his thumb to a biometric scanner that allowed him to electronically lock the doors against all comers unless he wanted to allow them entry. However, since the other members of this meeting were already seated at the table with him, he sealed the doors and nodded.

"The room is secure gentlemen. If we could turn off all our mobiles, we can begin."

Nobody moved. After spending many hours in this space, everyone knew the protocol, and all electronic devices had already been turned off. Several others had previously been 're-positioned' to "throw off the scent."

Mycroft looked around at the people sitting with him. "Shall we commence with today's memo?"

Accepting the soft murmurs as agreement, the minor employee of the British Government opened the first of several files before him. "First order of business, Sherlock Holmes. Not only is he back in the country, but he is also currently situated within this very building. Anthea is keeping an eye on him and I am assured we shall not be disturbed. He is, and has been for some months now, in quite capable hands."

One of the men opposite him questioned, "We know how adept he is at escaping from seemingly impossible places. Are you sure he will be securely held here?"

"Ash makes good tea, Doctor," he smiled when the other grinned in understanding. "There will be no suspicions. Anthea and I will take complete responsibility when he awakens. He looked to be in great need of rest. And you well know Sherlock Holmes listens to very few. You, at the moment, are unavailable." The other man nodded, accepting Mycroft's reply, knowing there was nothing more that could be done about it now.

Removing a paper from a file, the doctor continued, "What is the current status on Moriarty?"

A young woman dressed in second-hand but clean clothes looked around, unsure of whether or not she could speak. Encouraged by the doctor's gentle smile she leaned forward and began haltingly, "We – we have seen Moriarty in London for the past few months. He walks around with his head down or wearing a hoodie, hands in his jeans pockets. There is nothing special about his clothes, nothing to make him stand out. He hasn't been wearing those suits we were told to look out for." She stopped and bit her lip.

"Go on, Chessy," the doctor said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"He's been following you, Doc John, and your Inspector friend. Standing around outside of 221B Baker Street at random times. Sometimes he comes to your crime scenes. Watches you and your friend. We and your people have tracked him walking all throughout the city. He doesn't seem to be doing anything but walking and looking. Some nights he stands under the window of your flat and listens to that classical music you play on the CD."

"Does he suspect anyone of watching him?"

"He knows about the Homeless Network. And he doesn't come anywhere near the underground areas when it is evening or night-time. But your people more than make up for that. They're everywhere. Most of our news comes from them when he goes out of the city or towards the docks or the construction areas. Our network doesn't go that far, but your friends do."

The doctor laughed, "Yes, they're good at that."

"Do you know about his safe-houses?" questioned Mycroft.

"I don't know about any but one, sir. He's staying with that shooter fellow. Moran. At those abandoned Nicholas Cage flats."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes sir."

"Mycroft, don't scare her. You know she's right. I've told you as much."

"Just making sure of things John." He switched to another file and looked at another member of their secret gathering. "Colonel Moran, good of you join us. Report, please."

"Moriarty got into London about 3 months ago and has since been biding his time. I've seen him following our targets, Dr. Watson and DI Lestrade. He doesn't seem too interested in the landlady. At least not personally. But all our contracts are still active for all targets. One of my boys saw him at the flats the day before yesterday. He looked around and left. As of this morning, he's moved in with me and for all intents and purposes, intends to stay there for some time."

He looked at a paper in front of him and continued. "He asked about the status of the previous operatives, Andrew and Aaron. He knew about their arrest but asked me anyway. I've told him about Simon and Tom, but I doubt he will approach them himself since I've also said that they have standing orders to shoot-on-sight should anyone try to approach them without a passcode. It seemed to satisfy him for some reason."

"On the other hand, he's angry at all the losses he's incurred across the world and he's looking for revenge. He wants me to pull together a small army of varied skill-sets. I've already spoken to Dr. Watson about this. He's assured me he will pull together a team that I can present to Moriarty when he next asks. In return, I've told Moriarty I'm calling in some of my old army comrades. I trust you will handle their backgrounds for when Moriarty goes snooping."

"Which group are you pulling in?"

John Watson smiled, "Command 1. Ben's team. They'll be here the day after."

The British Government smirked, "I should have known." He turned back to Moran. "Everything will be ready when you need it."

"In which case, I should probably requisition for arms and ammunition now. Under the radar of course."

"I'll deliver them to the location of Dr. Watson's choice. You can pick them from there."

"Send it to any army surplus store. I will know when it gets there and I will inform Moran. That way it's random and nothing gets traced back to anybody."

"Very well."

The DI, who had been present and listening silently to the conversations flying across the table cleared his throat and asked, "Do we know who he's targeting this time?"

Moran looked at everyone else at the table and stopped at Mycroft. "He wants to take down both the Holmes brothers. Moriarty's reached the conclusion that Mycroft could be the only person with the power and the resources to bring down his criminal empire. After the Chinese and the Serbians, apparently. And because he doesn't know that Sherlock is still alive and in the city, he's going to go after the contract targets. It's supposed to symbolic. They are known to be under your protection in lieu of Sherlock. Hurt them to hurt you. He figures since it worked once … well. In what order of significance though, I don't yet know. We'll have to wait for when he tells us his plans."

"Very well. Is there anything else to report?" Mycroft looked around at the others, nodding at the lack of a reply. "Captain Watson, what are our plans now?"

John Watson smiled. "We have Moriarty right where we want him. He's in the city, surrounded by our people ..."

"More like _your_ people, John," observed Mycroft wryly.

John cleared his throat, sporting a light blush as the others chuckled. "Ah, well, yes, my people. Alright, you guys! Can it!" He glowered at everybody, but couldn't help letting his expression slip at Mycroft's raised brow and Lestrade's smirk.

"Yes, as I was saying, he's surrounded by my people. There is nothing he can do now that we won't either know or be able to immediately counter. Ben will join us at 0500 hrs the day after. I already have a safe house up and running for them where they can crash. Let him try and fail. The more unsettled he gets, the more mistakes he will make. We pick up the slack and I finish him off. He will never see it coming. Not from me."

"And Sherlock?"

"If he agrees to be good and only if he is accompanied by Ash, yourself, and Lestrade, he can have a ring-side seat to watch Moriarty go down. What he does after that is up to him. But Moriarty is mine."

Mycroft nodded once sharply. "Agreed Captain Watson. What is your time frame for this … event?"

"I suppose bringing this theater to an end on the day it officially began would be fair, don't you think?" John asked musingly.

While some of those present looked confused, John and Mycroft were on the same page. Not for the last time did Mycroft thank whatever lucky stars he and his brother could claim to have for a man like John Watson to be willingly and vocally very much on their side of the mayhem. As Sherlock's friend and partner, the man was an incomparable asset. And going by that glint in his eyes, John knew exactly what he was thinking. Unnerving. That he should have learned so much from Sherlock and then to have it turned on him. Mycroft subdued a cold shiver that ran down his spine.

Nodding decisively he spoke, "Perfect symmetry, seeing as how you were supposed to be the original target. Do we need that long?"

"Honestly, no. I could ventilate his head tonight. But I want everything to be out in the open by then and Sherlock's name cleared, our slates wiped clean, at least officially. We need to be able to start fresh. Public memory can be dealt with later. It's the now I'm more concerned with."

"I'll start getting that anonymous material out then, shall I?" Lestrade said jokingly.

"Might as well," John shrugged and winked at his friend. "You don't want this one to become a cold case."

"Ha! No. No, I don't. I'll get right on it tomorrow." He looked across to the British Government. "Will you be dealing with the press releases and Kitty Riley?"

"There will be a list of the papers which will run our news on your desk tomorrow morning. And no, the Sun will most assuredly not be on it. If we can gain public pressure through the media, NSY will have no reason to not re-open the case."

"Shall I leave that political wrangling to you then, Mycroft?"

"I assure you I will enjoy it, John."

"Good then. Fine. Until Ben gets in the day after, there is little to do but wait. I'm almost sure Moriarty will have something for us by then as well. I'll be in touch through the usual routes."

Mycroft cocked a brow and John minutely shook his head. Satisfied that the good Doctor was not in danger of being discovered, he declared the meeting at an end. "The same protocols for leaving this place will apply. And we may have to change our venue for next time. We will have to be more vigilant now with Moriarty in the picture."

"As long as it's not another abandoned warehouse."

Mycroft refrained from rolling his eyes at John's teasing comment, even as a smile tugged at his lips. John was one of the few people completely at ease with joking with the British Government. John was a friend.

Bringing his attention back to the matter at hand, he nodded at everyone as he rose from the table to disable the electronic lockdown on the room. With the system disengaged, the others took their cues to leave, waiting for Moran as before.

Moran stood and shook hands with the others before turning to a section of the floor to ceiling painting on the wall behind him. Unseen by the others, he did something that caused a section of the wall to slide back and out, revealing stairs leading up. As he went through, the wall slid back into place seamlessly, the mechanism locking behind him.

From a cupboard along the way, he changed into a set of black clothes. Moving up silently, he came to the first of four different exits to the roof and looked at the array of cameras and CCTV feeds being monitored there. Satisfied that the roof was clear, he nodded to the agent at the desk, punched in an access code at the door, and cautiously stepped out. Simultaneously, three other black-clad people used the other three roof-top exits, all of them keeping to the shadows and making for their respective drop-off points.

Trusting his weight to the high tensile wire, one end of which was attached to the buckle on the belt keeping his trousers up and the other to the wall of the building, he pushed away and made the jump down to the street. Unclipping himself, he went to the skip nearby and collected the weapons he had previously stashed away inside. Then he walked down to the car he had parked a street away and drove back with the lights off. From then it was simply a waiting game.

He didn't have to wait long.

The door to the Club opened, only a dim light shining through as always. Three people were picked up in one of those sleek black cars Mycroft preferred and driven away. Following them was simple, and as always, their trip ended at Baker Street. The DI had more or less moved in at 221B from all accounts. His marriage was rumored to be on the rocks and his wife had moved out long ago. The two bachelors had been living together for over about two months.

All three passengers of the car entered 221B Baker Street. Only then did the vehicle roll silently away. As always, he made up his makeshift bed in the backseat of his car and settled in for the night. Exchanging a few texts with the men keeping watch over the house, he established the no-one of either Moriarty's or Sherlock's description had arrived at this location for as long as they had all been gone. No doubt, the Doctor had done the same inside. Ah, there was the all-clear signal; he could hear Vivaldi playing in the flat. Satisfied, he made to sleep, knowing one of the others would wake him for his shift in a few hours.

* * *

**~ Ash's POV ~**

* * *

When Sherlock left to meet Mycroft, it was understood that Ash would not be following him in. This was a meeting of brothers, antagonistic and barely civil, but required. It was just as well because he doubted he would have been able to present himself as remotely civil at just that moment.

He wished he could take a switch to the younger Holmes.

Commander Watson had specified quite clearly that Sherlock wasn't allowed to be in _England_ , much less in his brother's Club until the end of this mission. Ash had every intention of following that order to the best of his ability. And he had. He knew he had. Until one overbearing, pompous, ignorant, arse of a detective decided to call the airlines and order their tickets behind his back.

They'd been in Calais, France, enjoying some much needed post-case rest. And for once the detective hadn't shouted _'Bored!'_ while sitting at the beach pouring over a thick medical text. In French. Ash had been very appreciative indeed. Sleep had become a luxury in the time he spent with Sherlock and he'd often wondered how Commander Watson tolerated the man.

He should have known it was too good to last.

Under the pretense of there being an urgent case to solve, Sherlock the human whirlwind had made all the arrangements, packed their bags, and checked them out of their hotel. He'd been waiting in the lounge of said hotel typing out the 34th text to Ash in 20 minutes, demanding that the man return immediately. Thinking the worst, Ash had. Only to be pulled out and away in the wake of the detective, tickets to Luxembourg clutched tightly in his hand.

Sherlock insisted that they should drive some of the distance since he needed to think and had already rented a car for the purpose. Leaving Ash to load their bags and settle into the passenger seat, Sherlock bought a map from the local newspaper stand and got behind the wheel.

Somewhere along the way, Ash was drugged with a fever inducer and a sleeping pill. He never realized when Sherlock turned them around and drove them all the way into London.

Once there, they'd gone to ground in one of Sherlock's safe houses in Soho. Ash recovered two days later and Sherlock told him the truth. When he realized that John's plans must already be active, he had no choice but to agree to visit the Diogenes Club with Sherlock the next day.

But while the detective was out making arrangements for transport, he made contact with his Commander and reported in. To say that John had been angry was an understatement. Still, he'd understood because he knew Sherlock, and Ash had received his new orders.

Which is how he was now standing in the very place in which his superior officer was attending a clandestine meeting. Things could not have been worse, but for the fact that Ash had been authorized to use any means to disable Sherlock for as long as necessary until ordered otherwise.

Of course, it was a good thing he'd been playing Words with Friends with the elder Holmes' PA over the last six months. She was his ally in the house who provided him with everything he needed. When Sherlock returned from visiting with his brother, it was with a contemplative expression. Ash knew from experience that no good would come of it for any of them if Sherlock was allowed to finish his train of thought.

Next step: Ash's special tea laced with a strong sedative courtesy of Anthea.

It was understood that the younger Holmes would be relocated once the drug kicked in.

Sherlock Holmes had returned to John Watson, little knowing that now that he was here, his return would be orchestrated by his unobtrusive flatmate, to be revealed and used only when required and not a second before. In response to his wishes, the Diogenes Club was now a fortress designed to keep one Sherlock Holmes in.

Sitting in the favorite armchair in 221B Baker Street, John Watson read Ash's latest text and smiled.

* * *

**~ John's POV ~**

* * *

Within 6 hours of Moriarty's official arrival in London, every underground movement knew the scales were once more balanced. Consulting Detective against Consulting Criminal. But that was superficial, a mere façade.

The real scales of power were in the hands of an entirely unassuming little chap, a blue-eyed blond who had a predilection for unsightly jumpers and tea, a ready smile that made him appear to be cute and cuddly and nonthreatening, like a human-sized fluffy teddy bear toy that could see no evil, speak no evil and honestly, could you really expect _him_ to do _any_ thing even _remotely_ evil? There are people who would laugh you right out their door and into the asylum for even suggesting such a thing.

No, no, John Watson was as quiet a chap as you could ever know. He was friendly and sweet, charming and chivalrous with the ladies, a real gentleman, well mannered and well dressed; for all that he looked like somebody's favorite uncle. _And_ he was an Army Doctor. Well, that just proved that the man could do no wrong.

But people did talk.

'So sad the way his friend died. Jumped off St. Bart's roof, he did … Poor doctor's all broken up with grief. He hardly left the flat for months after; even his landlady hardly saw him about … These days he seems better though. Goes to the pub with that police inspector friend of his … And some days he goes for grief counselling to some big posh place in a grand black car … His landlady said so to Mrs. Turner last month. Said she finally convinced him to go somewhere private and what a relief it was …'

The doctor's legionnaires brought him every single scrap of news and gossip on the street and in the underground. He'd known before many others when James Moriarty became a regular haunt of pedestrian London. He knew when Sherlock Holmes set foot on London's soil. He knew when he was being followed by the criminal. He knew where Mycroft's detail was at all times. He knew when they picked up on Moriarty's presence.

He knew what days the criminal liked to stand across the street from 221B's windows and listen to the music leaning against the light pole or sitting on someone's stairs. He knew when the criminal had come snooping at 221B when he was out with Lestrade.

He knew that Moriarty would know he would never drink tea in a cup that was newly filled with torn pieces of a familiar coat soaked in old blood. He knew that Moriarty expected the nightmares to return in their fullest intensity that night. He knew Moriarty would be standing below listening to him scream.

_"SHERLOCK!"_

He knew Moriarty would laugh.

John Watson knew a lot.

And he took that knowledge and used it against the man who had single-handedly ruined the new life he had created for himself.

Captain John 'TC' Watson had once invaded Afghanistan and survived.

James Moriarty would _burn_.


	12. John Watson, Then and Now

I just want to point out that I've already given a lot of clues in this story, almost from the beginning. But as we're nearing the end now, and its all going to come out soon, I must thank you for your patience, my wonderful readers. Be like John. It won't be too long now. And I must say, if anyone hasn't worked it out yet, then the reveal is going to be absolutely unexpected. *grins widely*

But for all that, I do extend my very warm thanks to everybody who reviewed and followed and favorited and even read this story. Brilliant people, the lot of you!

**Disclaimer: All songs used in this chapter belong to 3OH!3 and not at all to me. But I hope you like them. The order is listed at the end if you want to listen while you read. Enjoy!**

* * *

In the next day and a half a change had been engineered, introduced and accomplished by the little band of government and military conspirators. It was an unexpected move, one that only three people know about. Well, four, if you count the victim of this leg of the game.

The victim? One Sherlock Holmes.

At present he's busy trying to glare in his older brother's direction from within the restricting confines of a blindfold and a straitjacket, which they hope will hold him for at least a while longer so they can explain some things to him. Some of the other players are outside the door, waiting for their cue.

"Settle down Sherlock. Had you agreed to actually listen to us peacefully, you wouldn't be in that contraption."

"Had you bothered to involve me in your plans before, you wouldn't be needing this 'contraption', Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose, staving off a headache. It was far too late in the night to be arguing with his headstrong brother, and yet that is exactly what he was forced to do.

"You know why we could not involve you Sherlock. Be reasonable."

"And because of your insistence on being 'reasonable' instead of calling me in at the first sign of danger, you have managed to accomplish the exact opposite of the only thing I asked you to do for me. John is now in danger because of you. I hope you're happy."

"Stop sulking Sherlock."

"I'll stop sulking when you let me out of this thing and give me what I need to help John."

"Oh, we're just going in circles." Mycroft opened the door and called to someone outside. "You can come in now."

"And whom have you called now, brother?"

"A friend of yours'." And then he directed the rest of his words to the person outside. "Get him out of that and make sure he stays in here. The detail will be outside. Anything at all that you need, just tell them."

Curious, he didn't hear a reply. Shouldn't there have been a reply? He rather doubted the British Government would overlook blatant subordination like that. Unless … That scent, burnt wood and smoke and cement and rain. He smiled.

"Hello Ash. Welcome back."

Mycroft sighed. "Try not to run him ragged again, Sherlock. You will be given further information when it is time. Goodnight."

He heard one set of footsteps moving away and down some stairs, and another moving across a wooden floor towards him. A sudden half thunk told him that at least part of the floor was carpeted. The scent of smoke moved around him and he felt hands jerking and pulling at his restraints. When the blindfold came loose, the person behind him whipped it away smartly and he allowed the little light in the room settle on his eyelids before opening them to see Ash standing in front of him holding a card.

Raising a brow at the means, he nevertheless looked at the message printed there.

' _Patience is a virtue, my dear. Even for you, especially for you, as impulsive as you are. For two years you have been running around the world chasing shadows. Now the shadows are chasing you. Everyone knows you have one weakness. John Watson. You died for him. Not everyone knows you also have one strength. John Watson. You killed for him._

_But you left him behind to wait for you. Like John Watson said, you risk your life to prove you're clever because you're an idiot. You never stop to think how the people you leave behind will feel. And you didn't think. John is a war vet. with PTSD and you jumped in front of him. Did you ever wonder what happened to him? You broke your friend. Destroyed the only good thing you had in your life. Because you never understood just how invested he was in you._

_So now you have nothing. Nothing but a chance to try and make this right. To not be an idiot again. You will receive your instructions later. Do not try to leave these rooms. You are watched constantly by more people than you know. For the sake of my sanity and the future of this country, try nothing and the end may still be amiable._

_Goodnight Sherlock Holmes. Sweet dreams.'_

Odd. The author had said a lot and yet said nothing. The only definitive information to be gleaned from the message was that he was to wait for instructions at this person's whim and he wasn't allowed to leave this place. Well, at least he would have company. He nodded to Ash to show he understood and the man once more bent to undo the buckles and remove the straitjacket, taking it away from Sherlock immediately. The detective narrowed his eyes in speculation, but said nothing. Instead he turned his attention to the missive now resting on the coffee table.

"Considering that the message has been printed, the author had obviously known about this meeting today. So it could not have been you Ash, even though you have doubtless known about this plan for longer than just this evening. Which obviously means that it had been prepared in advance for this meeting by someone else. Not Mycroft, no. Someone else who knows me and my brother and about my current status. But for once, I have absolutely no idea. And I won't have sufficient data until the instructions arrive."

With that, he flounced off to the nearby sofa and threw himself onto it, one hand on his stomach, the other hanging limply off the side of the sofa. There was nothing more to be done, but that didn't stop his mind from working out all the nuances of what he did know. When that resource was unsatisfactorily exhausted, he turned to thinking about John.

It was all he'd been doing since he returned. Either thinking about John or following him and his friends. It had surprised him to learn that John had re-joined the Met on their crime scenes and had in fact helped to apprehend several criminals, including the one arrest he witnessed in person. Though he was happy for his doctor, the change he witnessed in the man after his scuffle with the murderer was painful.

He hadn't seen this side of the man, lost, unsure, on edge, even in the beginning of their partnership. John had always kept that side of him hidden from the detective. He hadn't wanted pity, a feeling Sherlock understood well. But the way he'd broken down and that he'd allowed Lestrade to see him in that condition was frightening. It made the detective unsure of his own welcome, a doubt he had harbored since the beginning of his 'trip' and was now enforced.

Shifting down into the cushions, he made himself comfortable, closed his eyes, opened his mind and went into his Mind Palace to see his memories of John. They had been his only support in these two years. He allowed a sigh to escape his lips, already too far lost in his memories to notice Ash watching him with concern.

Opening the doors to his Mind Palace, Sherlock walked down long halls and corridors till he reached the Summer Wing; an entire section of his palace set aside for all things John Watson. Everything about John was here, from memories and conversations to images and scents, Sherlock had saved them all.

He walked up to the doors, towering creations made of solid oak, supported by walls the colour of an autumn sunset. Dragging his fingers down the grainy texture of the oak doors, he rested his forehead against them, drawing a deep breath to fortify himself. Then he threw them open.

At once Sherlock was enveloped in the essence of John Watson; warmth, love, acceptance and peace. The sheer strength of these attributes, which he attached with just one man, literally took his breath away every time he opened this door. Just like the man who to him was the living embodiment of them. He gasped for breath, closing the doors behind him, not willing to share his John Watson with anything or anybody else. Already he had taken residence in the largest part of his mind, overtaking others every day he shared himself unselfishly with Sherlock.

Over time Sherlock had learned and come to accept that John Watson was an unstoppable force of nature. He gave of himself freely to all that he loved and was as strong as the oak as a deterrent to everything that stood between them. His John was a fighter, strong and formidable, long before he became a soldier. It was in his nature to be ruthless and he fought with himself every day to keep that side of him under control. Of course, Sherlock had wanted to know the deepest darkest parts of John Watson, but as it stood, it would take something exceptional to make John reveal that side of him. Something that threatened those he considered under his protection.

It was in this struggle that Sherlock had discovered John Watson's dark side. Predictable really; he should have known it would be a case. Walking towards a picture on a far wall, Sherlock sat in his own armchair and began to watch the memory play.

" _Where are we going today?" John asked as he locked the door to 221B behind them._

" _Lestrade called. He wants some help with a hate crime."_

" _Hate crime? Why are you taking it?"_

" _Apparently, according to accounts, it's a gay man killing other gay men." Sherlock hailed a taxi and they got in. "Do you remember the suicide two weeks ago? A man killed himself without apparent cause at a popular nightclub. Ingested poison pills much like our first case. There were several more found in his pocket with his prints on them. He was the first. A week later, another man was found dead behind another nightclub, stabbed twice through the heart. The two cases had nothing in common. They didn't know each other, had nothing in common, no friends. There were no connections at all; at least not at first glance. And not to the police. So Lestrade called me in."_

" _Why now though?"_

" _Obvious, John! There's been another one."_

" _Okay, so where is it that we're going that you had me wear these clothes?"_

" _Barcode."_

" _Barcode? The … gay club, right?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Why there?"_

" _What better place to catch a gay man who kills other gay men at gay bars?"_

_John was quiet a moment. "But how do you know he'll be there?"_

_Sherlock sighed. "Over the past week, I've examined the data and filled in a lot of blanks. All three bodies were found within a 2-mile radius of Barcode, suggesting that it could be a possible focal point or even a haunt for the killer. Both victims were frequent patrons at Barcode until exactly a month ago when they shifted to other clubs. Why? That was when they found out about their lover's infidelity. He'd been seeing about 5 people at the same time and unfortunately for them, they all happened to meet at Barcode. It wasn't planned, simply a coincidence. They called him on it. What they didn't know is that this man was living under an alias and is actually a criminal by the name of Albert Fletcher, notorious for his sexual escapades while in prison. Fletcher decided to silence them and two are now dead, two others have left town and the last one is under police protection. But he's agreed to be our bait for the evening. Lestrade agreed."_

_The cab stopped and Sherlock looked out. "And we're at Barcode to catch a killer." He bounded out of the cab while John paid the fare._

" _Which still doesn't explain to me why we're dressed like this." John waved at the detective's impressive figure in his cerulean shirt slim fit and open at the neck, paired with skin-tight leather pants that hugged his hips like a glove, black belt and patent black leather shoes._

_Then he looked down at his own clothes. Sherlock had laid them out for him and bounced off without explanation. Black T-shirt that showed off his broad shoulders and tanned well-muscled arms, sleeveless black leather jacket, black belt in tapered black jeans, his dog tags and his combat boots. According to Sherlock, his obvious military bearing coupled with the ensemble made him look dangerous._

_John sighed. The clothes were something he had bought after he'd met Sarah. Clara had taken him out shopping, something he still regretted. It had been ages since he'd had to accompany Harry and he'd forgotten how exhausting shopping with a woman could be. Still, they had come back with an interesting selection of club-centric clothing and John had only worn some of them twice on his dates with Sarah. After the Blind Banker case he'd forgotten about them entirely._

" _Disguise John. Dress code is a requirement here. We have to blend in." They walked to the club's entrance and were allowed in without a murmur. The detective turned to his companion a bit smug. "You see?"_

" _Yeah yeah. How did you even know I still had these clothes?"_

" _Honestly John." Sherlock scoffed in that 'you obviously know how, don't bore me' tone._

_John sighed. "Right. Alright." He moved to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. "Anything for you, Sherlock?"_

_The detective was busy typing on his phone, although where he'd kept it in those skin-tight, hip-hugging leather pants was anybody's guess. "Mm, what?" He looked up and his narrowed for a second at the drink in John's hands. "No. At least one of us should stay sober."_

_John seemed offended at the implication. "I'm not going to get drunk, Sherlock."_

" _Oh fine." Sherlock joined him at the bar, leaning against the top, keen eyes searching the crowds._

" _What now?"_

" _Now, we mingle. Probably best to to it in turns though. I'll talk to the bartender, you talk to the people out there," he waved to the sea of bodies on the dance floor._

" _Okay, do you have a photo of this guy?"_

_Sherlock pulled out his phone and flicked over the screen then handed it over. John found himself looking at a fairly regular bloke, brunette and easy enough to identify with the scar on his cheek. Then his brain caught up with the rest of Sherlock's words._

" _Wait. You want me to dance out there!?"_

" _Come on John. You're smart and good looking. You find enough dates from among London's female members. You shouldn't have any problems finding dancing partners here."_

" _You want me to dance more than once!"_

_Sherlock looked at his flatmate in some concern. His eyes were wide and glazed over and he seemed to have difficulty breathing. He pulled his phone free from a lax grip. "You're not going to throw up, are you? These leathers are new."_

_John scowled at the detective and regained his composure. Tossing back his drink he ordered a shot of Jack. As soon as he got his drink, he picked it up and walked away, shouldering his way through to the DJ off to one side of the dance floor. Quite suddenly, the music changed._

' _When I come up in the club I'm talking mad shit,_

_Come up in the club, I'm 'bout to get my ass kicked,_

' _Coz I'm sipping on some Gin,_

_Sip-sipping on some Jack,_

_Slip 60 in her panties with my number on the back.'_

_The lyrics barely registered after that when he saw John Watson on the dance floor. The man had given himself up to the music, rolling his head to shift the tension in his shoulders. He pushed his shoulders back, swaying his hips as he walked. He was a predator stalking his prey._

_His right hand kept a firm hold on the glass of Jack in his hand, the left trailed fingers down the chest of a young blond twenty-three year old. John hooked his fingers through the belt loops and pulled him forward, forcing the boy to balance himself against his hard chest while he licked a line up the smooth line of his jaw, laving his earlobe with his tongue. Leaving the boy gasping, John threw back his shot and thrust the glass towards a nearby server._

_And then John Watson danced._

_Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. He had always known that John was a sensual creature. But John had always kept that part of himself away from the logic and rationality the detective insisted on in his Work. The doctor was a good conduit for all those pesky human emotions that the detective didn't understand and didn't bother with anyway. He'd never thought about it beyond that._

_But this. This was different. This was new. This was so much more than data._

_This dark side of his quiet, normal flatmate, emerging from behind a veritable shield of hideous jumpers. How had John kept this hidden from him?_

_Right. He had simply never paid any attention before. Obvious._

' _You think you're tight but my ice gets colder_ _  
_ _In ballerado fighting with my soldiers_ _  
_ _You know we clean never smoking that doja_ _  
_ _The gang sign – cause that's what we hold up.'_

_He watched John pull another man to him, a brunette, dancing hip to hip. He slid one hand into his partner's hair, pulling his head to one side as he attached his mouth to the exposed neck. Sherlock felt his pants getting tight as that unknown man panted heavily under the assault._

_Going by the selection of songs he was dominating the dance floor with, John Watson had done this before. These were not the moves of a nervous, inexperienced novice. The soldier moved confidently, each movement measured and meaningful. The detective watched as the not-familiar doctor exuded danger and seduced man after man on that dance floor bathed in a slew of colors._

_He wasn't the only one._

_The air was getting hot and heavy as the obviously dominant male danced with an increasing number of preening potential partners. The songs ensured the mood was firmly under the soldier's unrelenting control._

_'Purebred – shining with the nice coat…_ _  
__Your head – when I sick em at the right throat…_ _  
__Big teeth – shock collars on their necks…_ _  
__You fuck with 3OH!3 and motherfuckers know they're next.'_

 _Sherlock lost track of time, mesmerized by the sight of his flatmate. That was apart from the fact that the problem with his pants was so acute he couldn't have moved if he tried. His hands were clenched tight, nails digging into the soft palms, the pain keeping him somewhat grounded. He wanted nothing more than to rip_ his _partner away from all those prowling dogs, salivating at the salacious thoughts directed towards_ his _soldier._

_He was careful to keep thoughts of those hands and hips against his body away from conscious thought. He had to stay objective. John wasn't making it easy on him with that fierce controlled expression on his face._

_At some point in time, he became aware of the DI and his team standing at his shoulder. There was no sound of a greeting. One look over his shoulder explained why. They were all busy watching John. Lestrade, to his credit, watched John for a while before shifting his gaze away to look for their killer. Donovan, on the other hand, couldn't seem to get her eyes off the doctor. She swallowed convulsively and Sherlock turned back to see John grinding his hips into the man in front of him, graceful and sure._

_It was their informant. And John had his mouth against his ear, nipping and sucking lightly on his neck. The boy let his head roll back to rest against the soldier's shoulder. For a second he saw John grin darkly._

_He made to rise and felt a hand come down on his shoulder. Lestrade looked down at him and said, "Don't. Not now. We're almost there."_

_Sherlock frowned and looked at where Lestrade was pointing. Albert Fletcher was in the circle, approaching John. He ripped the younger man dancing with the soldier from his place and danced closer. Without missing a beat John stepped back watching the newcomer with hooded eyes. A criminal against a war-hardened soldier. Eyes shining with a strange light, Fletcher made the first move._

_And was answered appropriately._

_Still dancing, John pushed away the arm that would have pinned him face to face with Fletcher. Flawlessly, he twisted the arm down and under, turning Fletcher around, bringing him back to front, and held him there._

' _I got my wolf on my white T…_ _  
_ _He won't bite me – fucking with me and you get bitten most likely…_ _  
_ _Howling at the moon – growling at the lightning…_ _  
_ _The slang I spit is mad frightening…'_

_As they watched, John teased the killer, running his hands over his body, skimming the top of his thighs, all the while holding him securely. He reached up and nipped the man's ear, making him flinch. Unnoticed by the killer, he slipped free Fletcher's belt and brought it up to wind around his neck, pulling the cinch tight. Even from this distance, they could see Fletcher tremble._

_'I got a chokechain for my pit bull, mane…_ _  
__I got a shock collar for my rottweiler…_ _  
__I got a chokechain…_ _  
__I got a shock collar…'_

_John pulled the belt, making Fletcher's knees buckle, and whispered in his ear. The killer nodded, a sheen of sweat on his brow, and allowed John to lead him towards the washrooms around the back. On the way, John threw a look at the waiting DI and nodded minutely. Sherlock was surprised that John had been aware of the Met's presence._

_Minutes after the police entered the washrooms, a bellow of rage echoed through the bar. John emerged with ruffled hair and skinned knuckles, making a beeline for the bar. By the time he got another shot of Jack, the Met was already manhandling Fletcher away, the latter sporting a black eye and a bruise on his face and trauma to his stomach judging by the way he was walking. Lestrade nodded and waved at the two and took his leave. John turned to Sherlock._

" _Well, the case is over. You go home now. I'm going to stay a while. Forgot how much I enjoyed this." He rose and tossed back the Jack and made to walk away. "Don't wait up," he called over his shoulder._

_Sherlock watched John wade back into the sea of writhing bodies that parted to welcome him in. Another song began, jolting his senses._

_'I'm not your boyfriend, baby…_ _  
__I aint your cute little sex toy…_ _  
__I'm not your lion or your tiger…_ _  
__Wont be your nasty little boy…'_

_And Sherlock surged to his feet, pushing his way through to reach John's side, pulling away the man he was already dancing with. John watched him warily, his eyes dark, body swaying but tense. Sherlock moved into his personal space, as always disregarding all social conventions, looking down at the unfamiliar look in those deep blue eyes. Tentatively he put his hands on John's hips, moving his body to John's rhythm, letting him lead while ducking his head to place a light kiss on John's lips._

_As if John was waiting for it, he pushed one leg between Sherlock's lanky ones, moved his hands up, one harshly supporting his neck, the other burying itself into his dark curls, possessively holding Sherlock in place as he roughly took his mouth._

_'You know I rep this shit - I gots it tatted on my skin_ _  
__And if you fucking with my city - then you fucking with my kin_ _  
__You know I rep this shit - I got my hands up on your chest,_ _  
__Motherfuckers best believe it - that you fucking with the best.'_

_Genius that he was, Sherlock got the message and smoothed his hands over John's shoulders and down his back, easing away the tension, trying to reassure his partner. John must have understood because his kisses became softer, still plundering his mouth and leaving him breathless, but more gentle. His hands dropped, coming to rest on the small of his back rubbing in small circles as the other lightly rubbed into his curls._

_Sherlock felt stupidly, deliriously high, the hard heat at his hips scattering his thoughts, threatening imminent insensibility. Before he could lose what little control he had left, John pulled him down into a soft kiss and whispered, "Shall we go home?"_

" _Oh God, yes."_

_Turning smartly, John turned and marched out, pulling Sherlock along by the hand. He waved and nodded to the DJ, who waved back. There was already a taxi waiting outside and John pushed Sherlock in ahead of him, before getting in and shutting the door and giving the address._

_The detective blushed and squirmed under the doctor's heated gaze, but didn't pull his hand from where it rested within the doctor's grasp. He sighed as a thumb smoothed gently circles into the skin on his wrist, right on the pulse point. But when he looked at John, he found the doctor looking out his window, a small smile on his face and he was suddenly grateful for the time to collect his wayward thoughts._

_When the cab stopped at 221B, Sherlock had reached several crucial conclusions. Letting John pay the fare, he rushed to open the door and let himself into the flat. He heard John coming up the stairs, neither fast, nor slow, but just as usual, the rhythm of a regular day at Baker Street. He turned to face his friend._

_And was shocked into silence._

" _We crossed a line today, Sherlock. A line that could make us more than friends if that's what you want. If you want this, tell me. If you're not comfortable with taking the next step, just say so and_ nothing _needs to change. I will not be mad at you, and I will not leave. I know this is unexpected and big, so you can take all the time you need to decide on this. But understand this, whatever you decide, I will always be your friend and I will always be here for you."_

_Having given this speech calmly and without the slightest hesitation, John nodded to his flatmate and walked into the kitchen, filling the flat with the sound of a kettle filling in preparation of tea._

_Sherlock stood rooted in place for all of five seconds before striding after his friend and wrapping his arms around his waist. He lowered his head to the other man's shoulder and whispered, "I want this. I really do. But I also want you to stop dancing with anyone else."_

_John turned in his arms, a wide smile on his face and wrapped his arms around the pale neck of his partner. Looking into Sherlock's grey-blue eyes he replied, "Not even with a certain tall, lanky, sexy genius detective?"_

_Sherlock's lips curved in a small smile, "No, he'll do." He looked down seriously at his first and only best friend and spoke in a small voice. "I don't want to spoil this John, but I might because I don't know what to do. But I don't want to lose this, lose you either."_

" _I told you Sherlock, I'll be right here. It will all be fine."_

_Sherlock Holmes leaned into John Watson's kiss, only moving away with a smile when his partner turned to prepare tea with a peck on his cheek. Sherlock had never felt happier and had never looked back._

Uncomfortably aware of his body's response to that particular memory, Sherlock pulled himself out of his Mind Palace and went to the bathroom to take care of the problem. As he allowed his body to find completion with the hot water beating down on his shoulders, he admitted it to himself. He missed his John.

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**~ Moriarty's POV ~**

* * *

This had been fun. The most fun he'd had in months. Playing hide and seek with the Iceman had its own charm, but playing with pets was a hobby he hadn't indulged in a while. Particularly this one.

Jim Moriarty walked a half-circle around the drugged and bound figure in the wooden chair. For all of the Iceman's protections, it had been irritatingly easy to pick up the pet and bring him here. All it took was a little surveillance and a black car. Really, finding good help these days was getting so difficult.

The captive groaned and twitched. Moriarty grinned. Play time.

When John Watson opened his eyes, he found himself naked save for his pants, staring at a table top covered with hundreds of photos of himself. The chair he was in was wooden, but the arm-rests had been covered with dozens of long sharp nails with their sharp ends up. The legs of the chair had also been similarly treated and he could feel the nails digging into the flesh of his arms and legs. Automatically, he strained to keep his limbs away from them. His head felt heavy and disoriented. "Wha … where … am I?"

"You're where should always have been Johnny. In the doghouse. That's where good pets stay. Not sleeping with their masters and betters."

John tried to focus on the voice, familiar through the ringing in his head. "Who …?"

"Oh come on Johnny. Am I that forgettable?" hissed the criminal, walking into John's line of sight, shoes tapping sharply on the floor.

He relished the look on the pet's face when he recognized who it was. "No. _NO!_ This isn't possible. You're dead. You're supposed to be dead!"

"But I'm no~ot," Moriarty trilled, enjoying the disbelief and helpless fear on the pet's face.

"I had to come back, pet. Just for you." He ran a finger down one cheek and smirked at the instinctive flinch. "It was you, Johnny. You should have died that day. Pretty little pet should have flown away from the roof and left the masters to play. And the game would have been glorious."

He moved away as he continued, "But you ruined him. You ruined his magnificent brain, his razor-sharp intellect, his instincts, you took everything that made him interesting and sexy, and made him normal, made him stupid, made him slow, made him _boring_. It's your fault Sherlock is dead," he suddenly screamed, slapping John hard.

Suddenly he was being pulled across the floor, the chair scraping across the cement. When they stopped, he was turned around and positioned. It took him a few minutes to realize he was staring into a camera, its red light winking like a laser.

"You know how this works, don't you Johnny. I torture you and you scream for the camera and then I send it off to the Iceman. I imagine your phone will be traced, leading them straight to this place hours after you are dead. Do you know where you are, Johnny boy? I'll give you a hint."

Moriarty snapped his fingers and John's chest was covered with red dots. He looked around frantically, tugging in frustrating futility against his bonds. Moriarty's smile was all teeth, black eyes boring into his prey as he snapped his fingers again and the overhead lights came on. His horror was revealed.

They were at The Pool.

Jim Moriarty smiled. "See? I'm so sentimental, Johnny. I couldn't just take you out to any old place for our date, now could I? This place is sooo special!"

John struggled to find any weakness in his bonds, the rope rubbing into his wrists and across his throat. He gasped for breath. "You're a murderer Moriarty. Mycroft will find you and destroy you."

Jim opened his arms wide. "I'll wait for him. If he can find me. But whether or not that happens you will still be dead," the criminal nodded in mock sorrow.

"Screw you."

"Oh I'd love to Doctor. So nice of you to offer. But I like a little foreplay and I've brought some toys. I think I'll try them out first, if you don't mind." Stepping to the table behind John, he picked up a tray, bringing it forward to the stand beside the doctor. John flinched. "Oh, you'll like this, Johnny boy. I brought it because it appeals to your professional pursuits."

Walking around John, he held out a sleek scalpel, new and sharp, bright steel reflecting the light. "Is this a good one, Doctor? I wouldn't know really. Never had to dirty my hands before, never wanted to. But you're the exception, pet."

He drew the flat of the blade across John's jaw saying conversationally, "I've been told its better to warm the blade before cutting. Or maybe its just hearsay. Either way, it's time to start the show now."

Without warning, Moriarty drew the scalpel in a line across the doctor's right shoulder drawing it down along the breastbone. The doctor hissed as a bright thin line of red welled from the cut, congealing quickly in the cool air. "Well, that looks good. And to show how good I am, I'll just decorate your right side first."

Moriarty placed the cuts over each rib on the right side of John's body, making each consecutive slice through his skin a little deeper than the last. Blood flowed freely from the wounds, even though only light cuts and Moriarty stepped back to admire the effect. "Looks a bit like finger painting. Isn't that nice of me, Johnny boy?"

When John didn't respond, Jim punched him in the face, a straight cut across the right jaw, splitting the lip on a ring. Pulling John's head back Jim roared in his face, "You will answer me when I'm speaking to you!"

John looked up at the criminal and glared at him, lips pressed tight against the pain. He refused to give in to the man who had ripped apart his life.

Jim smiled; a sweet, happy little smile that looked out of place below the darkly gleaming black eyes. Then he picked up another slim bladed knife from the tray and plunged it into the doctor's right knee right above the cap, tearing through the skin and muscles and nerves, grinning at the sound of the doctor's incoherent screams of pain as he twisted the blade in the wound.

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**Songs in this chapter by 3OH!3:**

**1\. Punkbitch**

**2\. Holler Till You Pass Out**

**3\. Chokechain**

**4\. I'm Not Your Boyfriend Baby**

**I got a request for a back-story to John and Sherlock's relationship and here it is. This was supposed to be a one-shot really, so the format of this entire chapter was revamped to fit the story in its entirety. Hope you like it.**

**As you can see, the end is near. I would like to know whether you want John to take down Moriarty with only Mycroft in the know and tell Sherlock later? Or whether Sherlock should be present for the big reveal.**

**Please send in your opinion with your reviews. I'll go with the majority vote.**

**Hope you liked this chapter. Read and Review!**


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